


Others, I am not the first

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Childhood Sweethearts, Class Differences, E.M. Forster AU, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: “Did you ever dream you had a friend? Someone to last your whole life and you his. I suppose such a thing can’t really happen outside sleep.”― E.M. Forster, Maurice1925, Shopshire:WW1 has left James Fitzjames as the only heir to the Gambier title. When his estranged father dies he must reluctantly leave behind a life of decadence and freedom in 1920s London to take over the remote stately home he grew up in. Luckily his childhood best friend Solomon Tozer (now the local stone mason) is pleased to see him.Shades of Maurice, Brideshead Revisited and The Go-Between. Probably ended up a lot more Ken Russell than Merchant Ivory.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 105
Kudos: 33





	1. A reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this novel-length Fitzjames/Tozer (AKA FitzTozer, AKA LOBSTERBANG) since June and finally ready to start publishing! There's gonna be a lot of angst, a lot of misunderstandings, and a lot of fucking. And Dundy. 
> 
> Updating weekly, tags will be added as chapters are added. 
> 
> Where would I be without kt_fairy? I owe at least 40% of this story to her, and I shall never be able to thank her enough. My partner in fandom crimes, my old shipmate, my salty seadog soulmate <3

_ When I sat 'neath a strange roof-tree _

_ With nought I knew or loved round me _

_ Oh how my heart shrank back to thee, _

_ Then I felt how fast thy ties had bound me. _

He walks past Weekes' old workshop early in the afternoon and finds the wide carriage doors locked up, with a notice posted beneath the foggy window explaining that the stone mason has gone to his sister’s for his midday meal, and should anybody require him then they ought to leave a message with the publican next door. 

James hasn’t any message to leave, and with no other business in the village he rather dejectedly continues his walk , going as far as the post office behind the church before starting back to the house. It serves him right for not setting off earlier, really, and for not sending word ahead. Perhaps it was foolish - even arrogant - of him to keep his arrival a surprise. As he makes his way back through the village he realises that five years of keeping up with the bustling tumult of London has made him forget the belligerent way in which every aspect of life in Culswen runs at its own laissez-faire pace. 

In the bright sunshine of this early summer afternoon, the village of Culswen is exactly the dreamy English idyll James remembers from his childhood, an observation which irritates him more than he expected it to -  _ Et in Arcadia ego _ he thinks, wryly to himself. 

The same families keep the same shops and farm the same land; the same faces peer benignly out at him through the same windows and from the same front steps. The whitewashed, black beamed cottages have the same bowed slate roofs and the sheep grazing on the surrounding hillsides may as well be the same sheep. They haven’t even installed a telephone box.

The only clear sign that any time has passed at all is the solemn and serene granite angel which stands outside the church, barefoot beneath her grey stone robes and standing on a plinth which bears the name of every man lost in the war. 

James's own half-brothers are engraved at the top of the list. 

He pauses to read the epigraph out of curiosity - he did not have the heart to at his father’s memorial service a month ago, when the confusion of grief was still too wild and unpredictable. 

TO THE GLORY OF GOD AND IN HONOUR OF THESE BRAVE MEN OF OUR PARISH WHO IN THE GREAT WAR 1914-1918 GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR ALL WHICH MAKES OUR LIVES WORTH LIVING.

The words exhibit the same poignant English stoicism as every other memorial he has seen - hundreds of them have sprung up in every village and town in the country over the past seven years. James wonders briefly who chose these particular words - perhaps his own father had been asked, though he would likely have deferred the honour to the vicar. Lord Gambier was not a man who could easily articulate sentiment.

‘All which makes our lives worth living’ seems rather a hollow sacrifice to James; particularly in Culswen, where the quiet purpose of every inhabitant is to carefully repeat the pattern of previous generations. 

The mason's workshop has not changed either; the doors are daubed in the same faded sage green, with the words 'J. WEEKES - STONE MASON' painted above the locked entrance, even though John Weekes has been dead for two years. A heart attack, rather than a war, if James recalls correctly. His father had been sending him news from Culswen ever since his brothers died, and he’d tried to keep up an interest, resigned even then to the grim reality that with them gone he would have to return one day.

He passes the pub next; the doors and yellow shuttered windows flung wide open for the warm weather, so that he catches the pleasing cut-grass smell of hops as he walks by.

James doesn’t want a drink, nor does he have his pocketbook with him, rendering the entire expedition fruitless.

In London a man might step out of his home to find all manner of amusements waiting for him. In fact he had often set out from his Bloomsbury flat with a very specific errand in mind, only to return days later, his pockets stuffed with playbills and ticket stubs, inexplicably outfitted with a new pair of shoes, reeking of tobacco and either still drunk or nursing a thumping headache, only to find he had never got around to completing the task he’d left for. Such adventures are hardly likely to befall him in Shropshire. He begins to envision a stifling future in which he takes long bracing walks for excitement, or invites the vicar for tea, and is always abed by nine o’clock.

His earlier irritation is now in danger of lapsing into self pity, so James increases his pace across the shining cobblestones in the vain hope that exercise might shake off the gathering misery. He almost breathes a melancholy sigh of relief once he reaches Culswen’s outer boundary; a little wooden footbridge over the ford. 

The water is crystal clear as he crosses over, and the tiresome monotony of the village is somewhat lessened by fond boyhood memories of fishing in the same stream. Part of the river belongs to James now; it wends its way down to the village from a spring on the southernmost edge of the Gambier estate. The water runs much deeper through his land, and snakes through the shady woodland in the curve at the bottom of the hill which his house - known to all as  _ Cadwallen Hoo _ , a curious name which confuses the mixed Saxon and Welsh heritage of the entire area - is built upon. 

The walk is a good mile, and even James can admit to himself that the view is extremely fine. He and Bridgens, his valet, arrived quite late the evening before, and it was too dark then to enjoy the approach to the mansion, which is as impressive and elegant as it has ever been. It is not an old house by local standards - a mere hundred years - though there was a Tudor manor or hunting lodge of some sort in its place before it was demolished and reconstructed by a renowned architect in the 1820s. 

The east facing facade retains the air of a Regency villa, with roughcast and yellow-washed walls, tall, marble framed windows and a brilliant white central clocktower with a green patinated dome. There are twelve bedrooms, excluding the servants' quarters. All of them are empty now, and will be for the foreseeable future, for James has no plans to marry and he certainly won’t be inviting guests to stay until the place has had a proper airing. Most of the rooms have been closed off for years, James’ late father being Cadwallen Hoo’s only occupant since the war. Dust sheets cover the furniture, rugs have been rolled away, cupboards and drawers locked tight. The house is sleeping, and will need a good shaking before it is fit for visitors. 

(That is, if any of his London friends do not screech with laughter at the very idea of abandoning the city with its nightclubs and theatres for a quaint Shropshire village where the only social life is warm ale in the pub or tea with the vicar.) 

James continues to climb uphill, taking a shortcut by climbing over a stile and crossing the lawn to approach the house from the west. From this angle the features of the extensive gardens come into clearer view. Unlike the house itself, the grounds of the estate have not been left to their own devices. Always one for keeping up outward appearances, James’s father ensured that there was a full staff of gardeners on hand to keep the grounds beautiful, with something to offer for every season. 

There is a peaceful old kitchen garden lush with vegetables and every kind of herb, an Edwardian walled rose garden with almost two hundred varieties of flower and a preserved copse of trees behind the sombre ice house where swathes of mauve bluebells bloom every April. Best of all, at the end of the long walk lined with regimented box hedges, there is a wide shining lake and summerhouse, where James had spent his very fondest summers home from boarding school.

The shockingly blue sky above is so much more glorious and expansive than it ever was between the grey smoking chimney stacks of London. As James nears the house he cannot help feeling that the countryside seems to be extolling its own virtues to him, and he only half tries to ignore it. It is home, after all.

He surprises Bridgens by coming in through the kitchen door, which he did all the time as a child. He used the kitchen as his own personal thoroughfare for years; the staff were generally very fond of him, and allowed him all sorts of liberties his elder brothers were not. Most of all James remembers the cook, Mrs Jakes, who retired long ago and moved away somewhere. At least some people managed to escape Culswen for good. 

The kitchen was built to prepare banquets; it is an airy, high ceilinged room with an enormous black range, a broad oak table at its centre and a cool grey flagstone floor. Bridgens appears to be attempting to scrub every square inch of it.

“Did you enjoy your walk, sir?” Bridgens asks, filling a bucket with water and soap in the wide porcelain sink. 

“I did, thank you, it’s a fine day out,” James replies. “Do see that you have a chance to enjoy it yourself.”

“Yes, sir, I thought I might take a walk before supper.”

“I’ll help with this - is there much more to be done?”

“A fair bit sir, but we’re making a dent. Your books arrived an hour ago, I had the boxes put in the study, but I don’t know where we’ll find room.”

“I’m sure I can clear out some of Father’s old editions,” James says flippantly, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of a chair, rolling up his sleeves. The linen clings to him where he is still sweating from his walk. “Any sign of my paintings?”

“No sir. The shipping company did say it might take some weeks.”

“I suppose I can do without them for now. But we’ll have to see about having a telephone line put in,” James remembers, “there isn’t even a public booth in the village.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” Bridgens replies, undaunted. He lifts the bucket from the sink and sets it on the floor, picking up a mop next. James watches him guiltily. Bridgens never complains about anything, even when he ought to. 

“You shouldn’t have to do all this - first thing tomorrow I’ll put an advertisement in the post office for a cook, and a day girl, perhaps.”

“I’ll ask the gardeners, sir,” Bridgens suggests, swabbing the mop neatly around the legs of the table, “perhaps one of them can make a referral.”

“Getting on with them, are you?” James asks, “the gardeners? Not giving you any trouble?”

“No sir, they all seem fine lads.”

“Good stuff.”

Bridgens swipes his mop again, almost catching James’ ankles this time.

“Perhaps I’ll go and see to the study, then,” James said, edging around him. 

“Very good, sir. Supper at six?”

“Fine. I - ah… I thought I might go down to the village again, this evening.”

“Oh yes?” Bridgens keeps his eyes on his task.

“Yes,” James straightens his back, “have a drink in the public house, show my face, you know.”

“Sounds very pleasant sir.”

“I might be back very late.”

“Quite all right, sir, I shall find myself a book and see you in the morning, I expect.” Bridgens raises his dark head to give him a pleasant smile, then resumes his mopping. 

James doesn’t know why he’s being so vague about his evening plans - after all Bridgens is perfectly used to his returning home at all hours, or staying out all night, and has never been the kind of man to pass judgement. 

It must be the house, James thinks as he leaves the kitchen, walking up the long shadowy stone passageway and pulling back a heavy curtain. He has always felt slightly guilty under this roof; as though he will make a wrong move, or be caught doing something he shouldn’t be. He pushes open the green baize door and steps into the entrance hall, which is a world away from the spacious and functional kitchen. It is a riot of Edwardian opulence, of red velvet and gold braid and chinese porcelain; gilded oil paintings, dark polished furnishings, and clutter on every surface. The rest of Cadwallen Hoo’s interior is much the same; it has not been redecorated for as long as James has known it.

He has a very distant memory of arriving, aged five or so, feeling very small and very frightened of this faraway palace with its endless corridors and fragile antiques. It was the first time he met his father - the first time he even knew he had one. He’d fallen asleep on the coach journey - there had been no motorcars anywhere in Shropshire then - and the woman who brought him must have just handed him off, because she wasn’t there when he woke up. That hadn’t been his mother; he knew she was dead by that time. He remembers yawning at the dinner table as he pushed strange food about on his plate, warily eyeing the two older boys.

“James,” Lady Gambier said to him, across the table. She was a soft spoken woman, but clear when she wanted to be, with very large eyes and a weak chin, “Lord Gambier is your father, do you understand? John and Robert are your brothers.”

“Half brothers,” said Robert, the eldest.

“Will he be James Gambier, then?” John asked.

“I am James Fitzjames,” he had protested, his feet swinging so that they kicked the table leg.

“Yes,” Lord Gambier nodded, as if he had said something very prudent, “I think we’ll keep things as they are.”

“Stop fidgeting, James,” Lady Gambier said. “Eat your supper like a good boy.”

He promptly burst into tears, and they called the nanny. After that he ate his supper in the nursery, or the kitchen, and much preferred it. 

The study is at the front of the house, and James spends a good few hours there clearing books. There are plenty he will keep from his father’s collection, but many more he has no use for. He will offer them to Bridgens, and then perhaps donate them to the village school, if they aren’t too horribly out of date. 

He eyes the great dark desk at the centre of the room. The keys were left out for him, but he hasn't dared unlock any of the drawers yet. They will be filled with papers; unfinished business his father has left him. Sorting books ought to wait until he has taken care of it, but he can't bring himself to do it today. 

The study is dim and shadowy, with a faint whiff of mildew. He smokes cigarette after cigarette as he makes piles of books and papers, half daydreaming about the changes he should like to make to the place. He is wealthy enough now to renovate the entire house; make the inside as light and beautiful as the grounds. It might take many years, but what else has he to do with himself? He needs some occupation.

He’d spent a lonely childhood at Cadwallen Hoo, and now it seems he is doomed to end his days the same way. 

“You can zip back to London whenever you please,” Dundy had insisted, before he left, “in fact I demand that you do.”

“It is an awfully long way.”

“Then keep the flat, why don’t you? You’ve enough money now. Dash it all - why not just sell the old country pile and buy yourself a nice place in Russell Square?”

“I need to be there, half the village are my tenants now. I’m the patron of the village school, and the cottage hospital too. Poor show if I’m not even in the county.”

“Plenty of landlords live in London,” Dundy replied with a careless shrug. 

He didn’t really have an answer for Dundy then, and was no closer to understanding it himself, even now. Still, he did keep the flat - after all, once the house was in order perhaps he would go back. A few months a year, surely no one could begrudge him that.

There was always the drastic option, of course. Complete destruction. Cadwallen Hoo was one of the few great English country houses that had escaped the relentless demolitions which had been occurring with increasing frequency since the war ended. It was all in the name of progress - people left the countryside in droves for factory jobs, or other better paid work, and agriculture no longer supported the landed gentry like it used to. Various reforms meant that the power which families like the Gambiers had once wielded had slowly drained away, and with increased taxes and no one left to serve them in their lofty mansions they were simply too expensive to bother maintaining.

James was not short of money, he had more than he would ever know what to do with, and he hardly needed a large staff. Demolition might be a quick solution, but it was not something he could contemplate without coming up against the complicated tangle of sincere emotion he felt for Cadwallen Hoo. He’d been lonely here, certainly; but he had been happy, too - happy in a guileless, innocent way, which feels very distant now as he nears thirty. 

_ We wove a web in childhood, a web of sunny air, we dug a spring in infancy, of water pure and fair -  _ who wrote that? He thinks it was one of the Brontës. 

James works in the study until the sunlight filtering through the grimy windows turns thick and golden - they will need washing, he thinks, and wonders with mounting dread how one goes about hiring somebody to clean forty-seven windows. He stares around at the piles he has created and the shelves he has emptied. Somehow the task looks even more impossible than it did three hours ago.

Tired and fractious, he returns to the kitchen and finds Bridgens laying out supper. It’s a simple affair of bread, cheese and luncheon meat which they eat together at the kitchen table.

“I spoke to one of the gardeners, sir,” Bridgens comments, “Mr Peglar, he said he would put word around the village that we’re looking for a maid.”

“Jolly good,” James nods, picking at his sandwich distractedly, “perhaps he knows somebody who can do the windows, they're frightfully dirty at the front of the house.”

“He did not mention cleaning, but he did draw my attention to window frames, sir; they are in need of repairing - apparently there are leaks in winter. It’s Mr Peglar’s opinion that the stonework needs replacing, but he says there is a mason in the village who would know better.”

“Fine,” James nods tightly. A warm blush begins to work its way up his neck. 

“I’ll begin writing up a list, sir.”

“Not this evening, though,” James stands up, taking his plate to the sink for a rinse, “you may not perform any household tasks at all this evening, Bridgens, do you hear me?”

“Very well, sir,” Bridgens smiles, taking up his own plate.

James washes before leaving the house again, slicking his hair with brilliantine and combing a neat parting before changing into a light brown suit with a matching waistcoat and a grey tie. He thinks twice before adding the navy blue polka dot pocket square, but decides he ought to look the part of Lord of the Manor, even if he doesn’t feel it. The effort will be appreciated, he’s sure. 

The walk back into the village is as pleasant as downhill walks always are. Culswen looks more charming than ever with the heavy evening light pouring down over the cottage rooftops, glancing off the whitewash and glinting in the windows as though they were gold plated. A richness of swallows swoops through the sky above, hundreds of them flying in swift unison like an undulating dark cloud as they prepare to roost for the evening.

It is after eight o’clock by the time he reaches the ford, and still warm enough that his collar is sticking to the back of his neck. The main highstreet is almost empty, with most of the villagers inside for their supper, their labours set down for the day. 

Culswen’s pub is incongruously named The Ship, despite being hundreds of miles from any open water. The swinging sign over the entrance depicts an eighteenth century ship of the line in full sail on rolling blue waves. The doors and windows are still open, and the turbulent noise of working men at leisure echoes across the cobblestones as James approaches.

He straightens his tie, noting with a glance that the stone mason’s next door remains closed, though the notice has been taken down. There are no lights on inside, so he can only assume he is correct in stopping in at The Ship first. 

A fog of warmth and chatter envelops him as he enters; a fire is blazing in the corner despite the heat of the day, and there is a heavy grey fug of tobacco smoke hanging in the air below the low black-beamed ceiling. It is just as he remembers it, of course; men young and old sit hunched over the dark tables on three legged stools, or else prop up the bar, laughing raucously and puffing on pipes. 

There is a game of darts going in one corner, cards in another, and behind the oak framed bar stands the gangly, hollow cheeked bartender William Gibson, serving beer from the barrel. There is a wall of spirits behind him, neatly lined up and shining like jewels in the lamplight, but these are chiefly reserved for Christmas and other festivities. 

The patrons turn their heads as he makes his way through them, and many of them sit up straighter, nod blunt greetings and even remove their hats before quickly turning back to their friends and murmuring amongst themselves. James offers his own polite responses and strides towards the bar with contrived stately confidence. The villagers shift aside to make way for him as he reaches the ancient oak counter, and he realises with that he isn’t sure what to order - he has never been a great ale drinker, and doesn’t suppose they sell much else. Gibson looks just as skittish about the impending interaction as James feels, and it is an immense relief when a gruff and friendly voice calls out behind him,

"Well, then! If it isn't the little lord."

Barely suppressing his delight, James turns at once to see the very man he came looking for, standing by a table at the window, his three companions still seated and looking on with undisguised bewilderment. 

It has been six long years since they last laid eyes on each other and yet James could swear that they have not spent one day apart, so strong is the flood of warm feeling which rushes up inside him at the sight of that broad handsome face. His tousled fair hair has darkened somewhat, brassy threads catching in the light as he crosses the floor.

“Tozer,” James extends a hand, smiling openly, "it's good to see you."

"I should say," Solomon Tozer grips his arm, shaking it firmly. 

The blazing heat of his strong hands permeate James's jacket sleeve. He had been a sturdy youth, and now appears to be the absolute picture of a robust working man; all brawn with unvarnished edges and easy humour. His years of heaving and carving stone have broadened his strong shoulders, and even in the hanging gloom of the pub his ruddy face is glowing where the sun has touched his cheeks. 

“How are you?”

“Well. Wondered when you’d make your appearance.”

“You knew I had returned, then?” James is surprised and slightly disappointed.

“Sally Irving saw you,” Tozer says, “she’s better than telegraph.”

“Ah.”

“Said you were too busy up at the big house to pay any calls.”

“Did she?” James is flustered, keenly aware that the rest of the pub’s patrons are watching them, or listening in. “I… well, yes, there is an awful lot to do.” 

“Come and tell me about it, then.” Tozer has no such inhibitions; but then he never did.

“Let me get you a drink,” James offers, half turning back to the bar.

“I’ve had my ale already. Only permit myself one of an evening, promised my sister.”

“Something else, then? Gin, maybe, or whisky?”

“If you like,” his eyes flash with mischief, “if you’re paying.”

“It would be my pleasure.” James smiles, feeling a wonderful unfurling begin to take place in his chest, the easing of an old and constricting knot.

The pub hasn’t any whisky, but there is gin; James watches William Gibson slowly fold his long limbs to squat below the bar in search of a dusty bottle. 

Meanwhile, Solomon has cleared the table by the window for their use - that, or his two surly faced friends were not interested in spending their few hours of rest socialising with the lord of the manor. Whatever the reason, James is glad to have Solomon to himself. 

As a child, James had been largely left to his own devices, being the bastard third son, and had few expectations placed upon or encouraged of him. His father, to whom he was a source of great shame simply by virtue of his birth, did not seem to know what to do with him, and favoured total avoidance where he could. His step mother was never especially cold, but nor was she affectionate, and his elder half brothers were neither kind nor unkind. Their worst crime was treating him with a vaguely superior indifference that only adolescent boys can. As a result James made his real friends at boarding school, and during the holidays had only one true ally at Cadwallon Hoo - the cook's son, Solomon Tozer. No one much minded that they played together, as long as they kept out of everybody else's way.

“How is your mother?” He asks, sitting down carefully on the stool provided. 

“My mother?” Solomon snorts, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans back in his seat to regard James, arms folded.

“Yes,” James replies, aware of how prim he sounds, “I was always very fond of Mrs Jakes.”

“She’s in Pontefract with my eldest sister.”

“Abigail.”

“Well remembered. Abby married a confectioner, believe that? Liquorice.”

“How nice,”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Solomon takes a drink, his face bursting with merriment. He’s teasing James, which is reassuring. Six years is a long time to pass without one word exchanged, even for once intimate acquaintances - things might have been very awkward between them, if Solomon was not the kind of man he was. James is immensely grateful that there is one person at least in Culswen with whom he may be at ease.

“And your other siblings?”

“You can’t want to know about every one.”

“Perhaps I do,” James raises his chin with a falsely haughty air. “I insist that you give me every piece of news on the Tozer-Jakes clan, do not leave out one detail.”

Tozer shakes his head laughing and drinks again, “you must be very bored.”

“You cannot imagine,” James sips his drink, raising a wry eyebrow. The gin is utterly foul, astringent and warm.

“Becky’s in Shrewsbury, Jess left for Ironbridge a year ago - both working. Only five of us still in the village.” Solomon watches James thoughtfully, mulling something over. “Mrs Irving said you arrived alone, apart from the butler?”

James nods shortly, “my valet, Bridgens.”

Tozer pulls a face of feigned interest, the corners of his mouth turned down, eyes on the contents of his tumbler. “Not married, then?”

“No. Nor you?”

“Nor I. Lydia - my third eldest sister -”

“- I remember.” 

“--she’d like to see me with a wife. But I’ve no time for it. I tell her with eight girls in the family I can’t be doing with any more mothering.” He says this fondly, and James recalls that Lydia was always Solomon’s favourite sister.

He remembers every one of Solomon’s siblings' names; all thirteen of them. As a boy he found it fascinating, he himself had only two half brothers, which amounted to barely anything at all. On dull afternoons he would have Solomon list them, and tell him about their characters. The eldest four were Tozers, and the following nine were Jakeses, as Solomon’s father had died and his mother remarried. James had always liked that; he had a different name from his family, too.

“And you?" Solomon asks, "how have you been keeping, down in London?"

"Oh, well enough. I was working, I was a commercial artist. Advertisements, fashion plates, you know the sort of thing."

Tozer raises his eyebrows but makes no comment. James feels his usual discomfited need to explain himself further. "Didn't seem worth it, going back to Cambridge after the war ended. None of my friends did, and I rather liked the sound of the cash. Having my own money, you know."

"Well, you've enough of it now," Solomon says, matter of factly. "You may become a gentleman of leisure."

"Yes," James looks down. He drinks again, he has almost finished it. 

"Didn't think that would suit you," Solomon says, his voice softer, expression sympathetic.

"No, it wasn't my first choice."

"I was sorry about your brothers," Solomon says, quite unexpectedly. "When I heard. You know we lost Joshua and Samuel?"

"I didn't know. I'm sorry. Was it--?"

"The Somme. I was there too, digging tunnels. Royal Engineers. We all heard about you at Jutland, of course. It was in the papers all over the county. Couldn’t picture you in the navy at first, but seems like you took to the sea after all."

“I suppose I did.”

“Like  _ Dylan ail Don _ in the story - do you remember?”

“Oh yes!” James grins, recalling the old Welsh fairytale passed down from Tozer’s mother about Dylan the ‘son of the wave’, who took on the nature of the sea. Their childhood games had been full of such stories.

“You were injured, though? At Jutland.”

"I was," James finishes his drink, wincing. "I hardly think about any of it now."

"Me neither." Tozer drinks from his glass and frowns, holding it up, “is this good?”

“No.”

He laughs, “come all the way down here for this shite when I know for a fact you’ve a fully stocked wine cellar up in your palace.”

“I came for the company,” James replies, casting a vague glance about the pub. 

“Charmer,” Solomon drains his glass. “How is it up there?”

“Dusty. Empty. Leaking, apparently.”

“Poor little lord."

“I’ll go if you keep making fun.”

“Thought it was what you came for,” Tozer gives him a look which is all in the eyes. “Company, I mean.”

“Well,” James allows a small smile to play in the corners of his mouth, “I thought you might cheer me up.”

“Did you, now?”

“You always manage to,” James allows his gaze to drop to Tozer’s lap, to his thick thighs and his heavy, rough hands. Solomon raises his eyebrows roguishly and clears his throat, lifting his voice for the benefit of any eavesdroppers,

“You’ve work for me up at the Hoo, is that right?”

“Oh!” James blinks, suddenly remembering, “actually, I have - my man, Bridgens was just telling me there’s a problem with the window frames.”

Solomon snorts, “could have predicted it, they were mended years back with a cement render.”

“Is that… what is wrong with that?”

“Nothing if you don’t mind ‘em leaking. Smothers the stone. Marble needs to breathe, like anything in nature.”

“Ah,” James nods, all at sea. “I understand.”

Tozer laughs, shaking his head. He raises his voice once more, “I’ve just the thing for that, then - perhaps if you came next door with me now?”

They both stand, and leave without a care for the eyes which follow them. 

It’s almost fully dark outside, cool blue twilight has poured itself across the gleaming cobblestones, turning them black as obsidian. Curtains are drawn in cottage windows, or else shutters closed, and the swallows are roosting, relinquishing the night to owls and swooping bats which fly out from the eaves of the church. The hillsides have become great hulking shadows, and Cadwallen Hoo sits like a pale ancient temple far above them. 

In London a very different sort of nightlife will be stirring; the lamplighters will be setting out with their ladders and torches; young women sit at their dressing tables draped in pearls and satin, putting on their powder for the evening; champagne bottles are being ordered and musicians in the jazz clubs are tuning their instruments. 

Solomon unlocks the carriage doors and slides them open on their runners, making a gap just enough for them to both slip inside. Once in, he draws them shut again, plunging them both into blackness. The high ceiling and cold, stream-water smell of marble and granite give James the impression he is standing inside a mountain cave. 

Solomon moves forward, “this way,” and James follows, then curses as his shin hits a heavy object which must be a block of granite.

"Bugger! Haven't you a lamp or something?"

"Nope."

"How do you make your way in the dark?"

"I just do," he replies, "here," Solomon reaches for his hand and places it on his shoulder, "follow me."

James does, allowing himself to be led across the workshop floor, his eyes gradually adjusting to the murky gloom. The whiteness of marble makes itself apparent first; strange half-hewn shapes stand about like frozen sentries, watching them make their way to the back of the shop. They might be gravestones, or monuments; parts for fountains or the columns of great buildings. 

“Here we are,” Solomon mutters to himself, stopping at a workbench and bending over to fiddle with some matches. James lets go of his shoulder and waits for the burst of yellow light from the paraffin lamp. Tozer sets the glass chimney over the flame, “better?” he asks, as if this is some special indulgence for James’ benefit.

“Much,” James replies, looking about with curiosity. The workshop loses all of its strange eeriness in the lamplight - stone is only stone, and the tools are commonplace, blackened from hard use and hung tidily in their brackets on the wall. There is a bare wooden staircase ahead of them, leading up into the loft. James casts his eyes up to the dropped ceiling, which must be the inverted shape of Solomon’s living space, suspended above the workshop like a dovecote.

“Up here, then,” Solomon says cheerily, beginning to climb, illuminating the steps as he goes.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Since my apprenticeship.”

“I thought Weekes had a house in the village?”

“He did, it went to his widow and his daughters. I don’t need it, do I?”

“You don’t mind being alone?”

“This from a man with a hundred empty rooms.”

“Hardly one hundred…”

They reach the top of the stairs, and in fact the loft is more comfortable than James expected. He supposes it would have to be, if Solomon has occupied it for thirteen years. He realises he never really pictured Solomon living anywhere before - as a boy he seemed to belong to the outdoors, and it was not hard to imagine him sleeping in a tree or out in the hills like a wild creature.

Solomon sets down the lamp on a trunk at the end of the bed, and the light glowing against the slant of the gabled ceiling gives the place an intimate atmosphere, like a berber tent. The bed which stands at the centre of the room is large, sagging in the middle but neatly covered with a homespun quilt knitted from red and orange wool. 

“ _ Be it ever so humble _ …” Solomon says.

“It’s perfectly lovely.”

Solomon grunts, “if you say so.”

James ignores him and continues to gaze carefully about the room, landing on each item as if he might be able to read it and somehow understand everything he has missed since they last parted ways. Beside the bed there is a wash stand outfitted with a mirror the size of a postcard, a shaving brush and bar of soap. The scent of stone dust reaches them through the gaps in the floorboards, and a small window set high in the wall provides the only natural light.

The remainder of the little room is taken up by a narrow workbench strewn with tools, piled up books and curled wood shavings, cluttered with whittled figures. James moves towards the table for a closer look. Tozer kicks off his boots and sits on his bed, back resting against the headboard, and is apparently content to watch James quietly from across the room.

The carvings are all shapes and sizes - spindly legged deer the size of his palm, a leaping hare with long tapered ears, the face of a green man surrounded by delicately sculpted ivy and oak leaves; hunting hounds and acorns, tiny field mice with fragile ears. James reaches out to gently touch the fresh cut white wood. If he had not known whose room he was standing in, he would know at once who created this collection. Each one has so much of Solomon in it. His eyes land on the carved body of a lithe nude woman, about eight inches tall, her arms raised to gather up her long hair. 

He presses his lips together and turns around, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case.

“These are very fine.”

“They’re just ideas,” Solomon shrugs.

“Will you make them? Carve them in stone, I mean?”

“Nah, need bronze these days. It’s all bronze. Not cheap.”

“Why not see about a loan? These would make money, I’m sure.”

“Piss off,” Solomon shakes his head, “not likely. Anyway, even if I had the cash for the metal, the nearest foundry is in Shrewsbury. I can’t be away that long.” 

It clearly isn’t a conversation he wants to have, so James puts the thought aside for later. He unclasps his silver case and withdraws a cigarette, glancing at Solomon, who nods. James places it between his lips and lights it with a match, then crosses the room as he inhales to ignite it before passing it to Solomon. 

“What about you, then?” he asks, watching James light the second cigarette, “When you were not painting your fashion plates, were you painting like you used to?”

“Oh, there were a great many distractions,” James waves the match out.

“I have no doubt. Pity, though.”

“Not really; I wasn’t as good as you.” It had been a source of great consternation as an adolescent, but James was man enough to admit to it now. 

“Maybe not,” Solomon tilts his head without arrogance or modesty, “but don’t tell me you didn’t have the opportunity to learn? Lots of artists in London, lectures and things. You read about it.”

“Where do you read about it?” The chuckle slips out before James can stop it, and at once Solomon’s face falls, abashed.

“I read,” he mutters, turning away to adjust the lamp, though it doesn’t need doing.

“I know that, of course,” James says quickly, looking back at the wooden models, “besides, you seem to be doing very well without any formal study - and I finally took a good look at the memorial today - it’s wonderful.”

This seems to worsen the situation. Tozer’s back stiffens like a steel rod. From where he’s sitting he flings his half-smoked cigarette like a dart to land in his washbasin and removes his coat, tossing it to the foot of the bed. 

“Wasn’t mine; mostly Weekes’ doing,” he says, “I only carved it out. Wouldn’t have done an angel, if it had been up to me.”

James nods, unsure what to say next. Tozer runs his fingers through his hair. It sticks up, then falls softly back into place. 

“I tell you what, I have some blackcurrant wine,” he says brightly, leaning over to reach under the bed and pulling out an old crate. Inside are all manner of things - brown paper, a ball of twine, a solitary knitted glove, a well-thumbed copy of the New Testament, and a corked bottle with a handwritten label. This he raises triumphantly, sitting back and swilling the black contents, “John Weekes’ last bottle. Took the recipe with him when he died, too.”

“What an honour,” James replies.

“Sit,” Solomon nods at the pillow beside him on the bed. James complies, throwing his own burning dog-end into the basin. The slack tendrils of smoke coil slowly upwards into the sturdy bare beams overhead.

James presses down on the heels of his brogues with each toe to step out of them - Bridgens will scold him for it tomorrow when he sees the creases in the leather - then shrugs out of his own jacket and settles down beside Solomon, who uncorks the wine with a satisfying pop.

“I’ve no glasses, mind,” he tips it directly into his mouth, then hands the bottle to James. 

James drinks, pleased to find that John Weekes’ blackcurrant wine is infinitely more palatable than the cheap gin in The Ship. The rich, dark taste coats his tongue and slides down his throat like velvet. 

He hands the bottle back, and Solomon raises it to his lips again. This is another echo of their boyhood together, clandestine evenings with half empty carafes taken from the kitchens after a party, getting giddy in the gardens and charging about on the back lawn like idiots until they could barely stand. 

A kind of peace falls about them, now they are both alone. James can hear faint singing from The Ship, and a fox screaming somewhere in the fields outside. Last night, in his own bedroom, the only sound was the occasional creaking of the house as it settled. This is a vast improvement. 

He drinks again and sighs contentedly, rolling his head back against the wall. The gin is starting to have an effect, it spreads warmly through his limbs, his weight sinks into the soft straw mattress. Solomon watches him, reaching for the wine again. 

“Well then? How is it, being back?” he swigs, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. The cuffs are greying, so is the collar. The cotton is dark with sweat where his braces rub. James would like very much to lay his head down against Solomon’s shoulder, but he isn’t drunk enough yet. 

“Strange,” he shrugs instead. “I knew I would have to, of course, after John and Robert were killed. I suppose I thought I had more time.”

“You wish you could have stayed away.” It is a statement, not a question, and causes a prickle of guilt at the back of James’ neck.

“It’s just that I had a life in London.”

“You’ve had a life here, too,” Solomon’s eyes are round and earnest in the low light, he nudges James’ thigh with his knee, “Culswen isn’t that awful, is it?”

“Well,” James replies, stretching his fingers out on the patchwork blanket to graze the knuckles of Solomon’s hand where it rests beside his, “I’m rather partial to this  _ particular _ place.”

Solomon’s face breaks into a smile, all seriousness dispelled, “you always did like roughing it.”

James rolls his head back and laughs, “ha, not half as much as you loved playing the scoundrel.”

“Scoundrel, am I?”

“Yes,” James smiles to himself, the wine smoothing over any remaining inhibitions. He arches his back and shuffles down on the bed to lie flat, patting Solomon’s knee as he does, “You are a rough village boy.”

“And you’re--”

“--a spoilt toff, I know.”

“Stuck up toff, I was going to say,” Solomon takes the bottle from him and corks it.

James laughs again, rolling his shoulders against the mattress to make himself comfortable, stretching his legs, “lout.”

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Solomon says, simply, then leans over and kisses him.

It is a kiss without pretence or mystery; a kiss James has known a thousand times, open mouthed and fearless. He relaxes into it at once; suddenly sixteen years old, shrill birdsong in the air and soft warm grass in the small of his back. 

Solomon lies half across him, one arm propping himself up and his hair falling forward to brush James' forehead. James reaches up to place a hand either side of his face and feels Solomon smile into his lips. He shifts again to allow Solomon the room to settle down beside him, and they roll inwards, lying against each other, savouring the taste of blackcurrant wine and tobacco, James pushing up against Solomon’s large, work worn hands which roam freely across his back, his chest and shoulders. 

The corked bottle rolls forgotten on the bed covers, caught up in their legs, the remaining contents sloshing.

There was wine the first time. James had stolen a bottle of his father’s finest from the cellar and brought it out to the summerhouse with the nefarious plan - which he was rather ashamed of now - that he would get Tozer drunk. In the end there was no need for it. Solomon had taken one gulp, declared it 'sour' and then kissed James anyway. The memory burns bright in his mind; how they had clung to each other with inept fingers; the astonishment on Solomon’s face and the delight they both shared with each new discovery; keen to explore every inch of their blooming desires. 

Over a decade has passed since then, and with a unique tremor of excitement James finds that those desires have been neither lessened nor tarnished by maturity. 

He moves his hand down to feel Solomon through his trousers and with a swell of pleasure finds his prick thick and hard. He lays his palm against the length, and Solomon groans appreciatively, pushing into James’s hand, reaching about to grip James’ backside, other hand on the nape of James’s neck, rough thumb stroking his hairline. A surge of arousal rushes through James like a match being struck, his mouth slackens in a moan as Solomon’s tongue curls against his. 

Pulling his hand away, he tugs at Solomon’s braces next, and Solomon begins to work the buttons on his waistcoat, their foreheads pressing hotly together,

“Wasn’t sure you'd want to,” Solomon grins, rolling his hips to push his thigh between James’s legs. James gets his braces down and pulls up his shirt next, “would have come up last night, if I’d known you would.”

“Would you have?” James feels a squirming ripple of elation which centres itself behind his navel. “Really?” 

“Nearly did when I saw the lights on,” Solomon answers, pulling apart his waistcoat, then beginning work on his shirt buttons, “... _ Jesus _ , did you have to dress for the bloody occasion?”

“Oh, here, just--” James pulls Solomon’s hand from his shirt and moves it down against his own aching cock, too impatient to bother with any more unwrapping. Solomon gropes him, kneading the heel of his hand to satisfy James' clamouring need for pressure.

They eventually concede that some barriers must be removed, and make quick work of each others’ trousers. Solomon’s rigid cock bobs free, flushed splendidly red and curving up towards his belly. James grasps it with such eager fervour that Tozer whines and shudders, his own hand reaching clumsily into James’s underwear to return the assault,

“Don’t think I’ll manage much more than this,” Solomon gulps, kissing his neck, “if that’s how you’re going to play it.” 

James is about to respond - though with what, he doesn’t know - when Solomon’s thumb drags over the wet slit of his cockhead, fingers pressing in on the sensitive underside, and he has not thought left in his head, not a want or concern beyond Solomon’s rough hand and the ecstatic burst of pleasure waiting just beyond the horizon. 

Solomon sucks the tender skin of his throat, his tongue sliding and flicking over the places he knows James is most sensitive while he works at his throbbing cock. He’s not going to last, he realises, he needs it too badly and he cannot halt the rapid rising of his crisis. 

Solomon’s teeth graze his earlobe and that is all, he is done for; an overwhelming tightness engulfs his middle as his legs begin to twitch. Unable to suppress a groan of exquisite joy, he jerks up into Solomon’s tight fist, spending in a great rush of white heat. He gasps, stars dancing in the dark rafters above as drowsy satisfaction floods through every limb.

It takes him a few seconds for his senses to return and to remember Solomon, who is still panting beside him, bucking his hips into James’s loose grip, thumbing his hipbone urgently.

James squeezes, resuming his previous rhythm and Solomon screws up his face, burying his head against James’s slick neck, “that’s it,” he mumbles in low animal tones, “that’s it, James -  _ christ _ .” He grunts, his prick jolts in James’ hand and spurts warm spunk over their bellies.

They roll together one last time to kiss, lazy and drunk with gratitude, then fall apart, lying on their backs. The window above them is black and starry, and the men in The Ship are making their way home, their irregular footsteps thudding down the street. 

James sits up, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and peels it off. Tozer does the same, using his to wipe at the dampest parts of himself, then wriggling out of his trousers too. James stretches forward to reach for his jacket and retrieve his cigarettes, and as he does he feels gentle fingers touching his shoulder blade, lightly tracing the scar which puckers the skin on both sides of his body.

“Nasty,” Solomon murmurs.

“Rather,” James replies, cavalier, tossing his hair and shaking Tozer away. He finds the cigarettes and lights one, hearing Solomon uncork and drink from the wine bottle again. 

He gets up, stretching his legs and shaking out his shirt. It’s all very well that Bridgens is discreet, but there’s no need to be an exhibitionist about it. The poor man has put up with quite enough already, following James into the back of beyond. 

“Boarding school  _ and _ the navy,” Solomon comments, watching James fold his shirt and then his trousers, cigarette burning between his lips as he concentrates on the sharpness of his creases. “Got you very well trained, eh.”

“Further proof I’ve no need for a wife,” James throws him a rakish look, setting down his clothes on top of the trunk by the paraffin lamp. 

Solomon yawns, draws his legs up and lifts the quilt, crawling underneath and laying back, "come on, yer Lordship," he says, pulling back a corner, “put that out and get back in.”

James obeys, smiling. He stubs out the cigarette in the basin, then returns to Tozer's soft bed. The blankets smell of him, everything in this room has him all over it. "Staying the night?" Solomon asks, wrapping both arms around James, who settles against him comfortably.

"I could," he replies, laying his head on the pillow. "I suppose I could do anything I like."

"Then do," Solomon kisses his cheek, sleepily. “And tomorrow we’ll have a look at those windows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "We wove a web in childhood" by Charlotte Brontë.
> 
> Coming soon: A RIDE IN A MOTORCAR! - A PICNIC! - OLIVE OIL!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. A day out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrestrained summer fun. Tags updated :)

_On the idle hill of summer,_

_Sleepy with the flow of streams,_

_Far I hear the steady drummer_

_Drumming like a noise in dreams._

“Feet down please,” Lydia elbows the back of Solomon’s chair as she passes behind him carrying a steaming plate of carrots and runner beans. He obediently drops his feet from the seat opposite, careful to mind Dolly and Davie, who are playing underneath the table.

Lydia sets down the dish and straightens, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist, “Isaac! Jude! Supper!” She calls out in no particular direction. 

The thunderous sound of footsteps shudders through the timbers of the cottage and Lydia casts her eyes upwards and smiles, "they'll come through that ceiling one day."

“We never did,” Solomon looks up at her from his magazine. He rolls it up, sticking it in his back pocket as he gets up from his seat.

“What are you reading, brother?” Lydia asks, turning her back and bending to open the stove door.

“Nothing interesting,” he replies. “I’ll do knives and forks, shall I?”

“Please,” she smiles, turning around, now carrying a huge steak and kidney pie, the crust golden and steaming. She sets it down as Solomon rifles in the kitchen dresser for cutlery. While his back is turned she snatches the magazine from him, “ _The Architectural Review_. Well, fancy that.”

“Thought it was worth a look, that’s all,” he says, not meeting her eye as he begins setting places at the table. 

Lydia watches him thoughtfully, a hand on her hip. In looks she favours the mother they share, rather than the father they don’t - her eyes are large and brown, her nose round and her jaw broad. She looks down again, reading the cover.

“And is it? Worth a look?"

“Dunno. S’pose.”

“Where did you get it?” she hands the edition back to him and bends to retrieve Dolly and sit her down in her high chair. 

“Found it,” he says, and hopes she doesn’t ask him anything else. 

He’s not sure why he doesn’t want to tell her that he pays a subscription for them, and that they arrive for him at the post office every month all the way from London. He has nothing to be ashamed of - after all, it says right at the top ‘For the artist _and_ the craftsman’, and Solomon is a craftsman. 

“Expanding your horizons, Sol?” she asks curiously, picking up Davie next. He struggles more than his sister, flailing his chubby arms and whinging.

“Just having a look.” Solomon says, rolling up the magazine again and returning it to his pocket before any of the others see.

Fortunately, as the rest of the family begins to appear there is too much commotion to allow for any further interrogation of Solomon’s reading habits. As usual, it takes some time before they are all seated and peaceful enough to say their prayers and eat.

Judith and Isaac, Solomon and Lydia’s youngest siblings, enter the kitchen bickering, as always, and shove each other as they fight for a place at the sink to wash their faces. Davie begins to cry and will only be pacified by a bit of rusk soaked in milk, and David Bryant, Lydia’s husband, comes in last of all, drowning out all of the chatter with loud greetings for the family and a kiss for his children.

“What a feast!” Bryant exclaims as everybody tucks in. Solomon murmurs in agreement. As a cook, Lydia is second only to their mother. 

“Jude, help Dolly with her dinner, will you?” Lydia nods to her four year old daughter as baby Davie squirms in her lap, turning his head away from the spoon. 

Judith, who is fourteen and furious about it, rolls her eyes and pulls Dolly into her lap. 

"Where's Rhoda?" Solomon asks, eyeing the empty chair.

"Out walking with her Mr Hartnell,” Lydia answers. Davie begins to wave his arms about again, face turning red.

"She's not _walking_ ," Judith says slyly. "She's up in his hayloft with her legs--"

Isaac splutters with laughter and Lydia slaps the back of Judith’s hand sharply, "mind your business, madam. She's out walking with her betrothed, and she'll have her tea when she gets in."

After supper Isaac sets himself up at the sink to wash the dishes while Judith is tasked with putting the little ones to bed upstairs. Rhoda still has not returned from her walk.

Solomon stays a bit longer to smoke in the old armchair by the fireplace. Bryant joins him as always, followed by Lydia with her knitting basket. The two of them sit peacefully on the settee, side by side, smiling tiredly and trying not to yawn. 

“How’s work, Sol?” Lydia asks first, her needles clicking neatly against each other. 

“Fine,” he nods. “You know I’ll be away all day tomorrow, up Market Drayton with Fitzjames.”

She glances up at him, eyebrows raised, “long way to go.”

“The marble came in for the windows up at the Hoo. Going to see it.”

“I hope he’s paying you properly,” Bryant says sternly, sucking on his pipe, “that’s a day’s missed wages, that is.”

“It’s a day away from the workshop, I’ll still be working. Need to see the marble before he buys it, don’t I?”

“Get it in writing, then,” Bryant replies, “they’re cunning about it, those types.”

“Oh, Sol’s known Lord Gambier since he was a boy,” Lydia tuts, propping her feet up in her husband’s lap. He smiles fondly at her and begins to rub them through her thick woollen socks. “I’m sure he’s not out to fleece him.”

“Big job, is it?”

“Twelve windows,” Solomon says, watching the flames in the fireplace, “I’ll need help with it, once the carving’s done. Work enough for half the village.”

“I’d like to see Isaac occupied,” Lydia comments, “he’s a dunce at his sums, won’t pay attention at school. Half a mind to send him to mother.” 

“You’d be better off hiring Jude,” Bryant laughs, “she’s more a boy than he is. Told me last week she wants to take up a trade.”

“That’s normal for girls her age,” Lydia says briskly, “they all want their independence, nowadays - look at Jess and Becky. There’s a thought - will you be passing through Shrewsbury tomorrow, Sol?”

“Doubt it,” Solomon replies. Not if he can help it; the notion of paying a visit to any of his sisters with Fitzjames in tow is out of the question. 

“Shame, you could stop in and see Becky, I’m sure she’s missing us.”

“Like I said,” Solomon shifts in his seat, “it’s work. Straight there and back.”

“Well I’m glad you’re getting out, anyway,” Lydia says. She settles back, resting her head against the arm of the settee and gazing at the fire. “Do you good. Maybe you’ll meet a nice girl in Market Drayton.”

“He’s met plenty of nice girls in Culswen,” Bryant grunts. Lydia kicks his belly with her toe. 

He laughs, seizing her ankle, "well, I ask you!” He continues, “there was the Hartnell girl, before she up and left, the Diggle cousin who stayed for the summer when they had their youngest - and let's not forget John Weekes' daughter, nearly cost him his job, that one."

"Honestly, David, anyone would think you were keeping count.” Lydia admonishes with a smirk.

"Natural for a man to want to sow his oats, I suppose."

"Aha! Hark who's jealous!" She makes to kick him again, and he snatches her heel, pushing her skirts up her shin and laying a row of kisses against her bare skin as she shrieks with laughter and drops her knitting. "You wicked man!" She cries, "I shall tell the Reverend!"

"And Sally Moffet!" Bryant raises his head, triumphantly, "before she was Mrs Irving, of course."

"You never!" Lydia pulls down her skirts again, eyes shining and cheeks red. "Solomon Tozer!"

"That was nothing," Solomon protests. "Too much brandy one Christmas."

"Well I'm glad you didn't marry her," Lydia sniffs. "Irksome woman. And she's only got worse since she married the vicar."

Solomon grunts a response. He doesn’t want to think about Sarah Irving, _or_ her handsome, pious husband. 

“There and back,” he repeats. “No stopping anywhere and no plans for courting.”

“Shall I pack you some corned beef for the journey? Bit of bread and cheese? I can send Isaac over with it in the morning.”

“I’ll likely eat in town.”

“If you’re sure - it’s a long way.” Lydia watches him carefully for a few moments before asking, “how is he, then?"

"Eh?" Tozer frowns, thinking he’d better get on home soon, back to the peace and quiet of his workshop.

"The new Lord Gambier? Still handsome?"

"Handsome, is he?!" Bryant interjects, only to be shushed by Lydia.

“He’s as he was,” Solomon replies. “Older, like we all are.”

"And still unmarried I hear,” Lydia comments, “- do you think he'll take Jude off our hands in a few years?"

David bursts out laughing, and gets another kick. 

Solomon doesn’t stay much longer after that, he starts to feel perhaps Lydia and David would like an hour or two to themselves, and besides, he ought to get to bed early. 

"Good night, Mrs Bryant," he gets up and leans over to kiss his sister’s cheek, “ta for supper.”

"Good night Sol, enjoy tomorrow."

"I'll see you out," Bryant gets up too. Solomon gives him an odd look, but doesn’t comment - it’s only a few short steps to the front door, the cottage is hardly a palace. 

When they do reach the threshold Bryant lowers his voice. "Hunting season’s not far off."

Ah, Solomon thinks; that’s it. Stands to reason he wouldn’t want Lydia overhearing. 

"Still a while away,” he replies, lowering his own voice, “won't see grouse 'til August, earliest."

"What I mean is," Bryant leans in, glancing back into the house, "will he still be up there, then? Your Lord Gambier?"

"My _lord_ ," Tozer tuts, scornfully.

"Your employer, then. Will he make trouble for us?"

Solomon shakes his head, "there'll be no trouble."

Bryant scratches his rust-coloured beard, regarding Solomon thoughtfully. “You two were thick as thieves when we were kids, weren’t you? I remember now.”

“We got on pretty well,” Tozer opens the door and tries to get a boot out, wishing David would let him go.

“Lots in common, eh?” Bryant laughs, slapping his shoulder, “all right, lad, see you tomorrow. Safe travels.”

It’s almost ten o’clock and the sun is well below the horizon. The clear summer night sky is such a deep shade of blue Solomon wishes he could bottle it to drink. The Ship is still open, he could stop in for a pint if he wants, but he finds he doesn’t. He and Fitzjames will be making an early start to Market Drayton, and it will be a long day. 

Solomon can’t remember the last time he left the village - he never has a need to. He has a business to run and a family to provide for. As much as he is loath to leave the shop shut (everyone will ask about it; it will be all he hears in the pub for the rest of the week) he won't pretend he isn't looking forward to it. They have not been alone together since the night Fitzjames came down to The Ship - Solomon has been up at Cadwallen Hoo; he's taken measurements and drawn up plans, but he always walks back to the village alone. There is much to do about the house, he understands. 

He was almost surprised when Fitzjames suggested going to see the marble. They were walking around the front of the house, Solomon explaining that the stone would have to be ordered and brought up the Union canal - and that the nearest trader was in Market Drayton.

"You can send for it by letter," he said, "I'll write up the specifics on a slip. Or you could go yourself if you wanted to see it first."

"I won’t know what I'm looking at, and I don't like to pay for something I haven't seen. You'll have to come with me." Like it was nothing. 

"As you please," Solomon nodded. He can bring himself to be polite around Fitzjames; as deferential as any man might be to his employer, but he cannot quite stomach calling him _Lord Gambier,_ even in public. He eyed the gardeners passing behind them with a ladder. Harry Peglar and the Manson boy - though he's hardly a boy now, he's twice the size of Peglar. 

"Excellent!" Fitzjames beamed boyishly, "been dying to get the motorcar out on these country roads."

Solomon raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He wouldn't dare take the fun out of it.

He can see Cadwallen Hoo now, up on its dark hill. The lights are on in three of the windows. 

What is Fitzjames doing at this moment, he wonders. Who did he eat his supper with? His butler, Bridgens, most likely; a quiet man with fine manners. Tozer has met him twice now, while making his drawings of the window frames. Bridgens seemed pleasant enough, but Solomon can’t imagine what the two of them talk about. James enjoys conversation, he’ll be missing company before too long. He surely had plenty of friends down in London.

As Solomon lets himself into his workshop and passes through the dark up to his loft, he revisits his usual fancy of walking up to the Hoo in the middle of the night and finding his way in. It would take him a while to find Fitzjames; he doesn’t know the layout of the house. He clearly recalls the big kitchen where his mother worked, and the echoing servant’s corridors and staircases which he and James were not supposed to use, but frequently did, and he remembers every inch of the gardens - but most of the rooms he has never seen at all. 

In this idle daydream Solomon always finds Fitzjames quickly, sometimes abed, sometimes undressing, or in an imagined library, reading. And when Fitzjames sees him he gives him that look they share sometimes; he smiles, because he has been waiting for Solomon to come.

It’s only a fancy; wool-gathering. He won’t go up tonight, nor will he on any other. It is a mistake to think you know another person’s mind.

Solomon thought he understood Fitzjames once, when they were younger. He had ideas and notions about him which time and distance have proved foolish. If they made any promises to each other then they were unspoken and quickly forgotten; once James left for Cambridge that was simply the end of it. Tozer hadn’t expected him to visit that night two weeks ago, and still isn’t quite sure what it means. He thinks perhaps Fitzjames is lonely, and Solomon is happy enough to offer a bit of comfort, if that’s what’s required of him. He’ll take greater care this time, at any rate.

In his attic he decides to save his paraffin for another day and throws off his clothes in the dark, tossing them to the bottom of the bed. The magazine falls out of his back pocket and splays out on the floorboards like a shot pigeon. He collects it up, smoothing the pages down and climbs into bed, shoving it under the empty pillow beside him. 

He’s never owned anything like it. Each new page is so striking, with bold letters, intricate technical drawings and printed photographs from all over the world - glorious Indian palaces, American ranch houses, cathedrals in Czechoslovakia, lush Moroccan courtyards. There is so much to look at that he has barely begun to read the articles yet, having spent most of his leisure time over the past few weeks simply staring at the pictures. He thinks about them all the time, he gets no peace anymore; his head is full of shapes and ideas he doesn’t know what to do with. 

The writing doesn’t entrance him in quite the same way. He isn’t used to it, wasn’t raised for it, and it makes him feel stupid. He persists, because he fancies that eventually he’ll pick up the knack, and then perhaps he could talk to Fitzjames about it. It seems the sort of thing Fitzjames would enjoy talking about - Solomon imagines the society he mixed with in London must have been very fine, very educated.

When they were children they taught each other things, Solomon has always remembered it very fondly. Fitzjames could be a pompous little sod, but he was keen enough to listen when you could get a word in. He taught Solomon that there were two names for almost everything in the world - common words, and proper scientific ones.

“That’s a cabbage white,” Solomon once pointed at a pale butterfly dancing over the herbs in the kitchen garden. 

“ _Pieris rapae_ ,” James returned, pronouncing the words carefully in that high and haughty voice of his. 

“Weeping willow,” said Solomon, when they lay side by side on the riverbank, bored of fishing and too lazy to move. The long tendril branches of the tree skimmed the dark surface of the river, as listless and indulgent as they felt.

“ _Salix Babylonica._ ”

“Doesn’t sound as nice.”

“It doesn’t matter how it sounds, it’s correct.”

Solomon shrugged, squinting as the sunlight cut through the trees above them, “I think it matters.”

There were still plenty of things he knew better than Fitzjames - lots of things Solomon had assumed were common sense. One day they were playing explorers, both having found themselves good sturdy sticks to thrash through the undergrowth in the little patch of woodland by the river, and James walked right into a nettle bush. Being summer, he was wearing short trousers, and shrieked as the white bumps began to pop up all over his shins.

Tozer rolled up his own trouser legs and waded into the cool stream with him, pulling him by the hand as he sobbed and whimpered.

“What’s the scientific word for those, then?” Solomon asked to try and cheer him up.

“ _Urtica d-diocia_ ,” Fitzjames sniffed, rubbing at his eyes, embarrassed.

“See now, maybe if you just called them stinging nettles you’d have known better to keep clear.”

“I didn’t see them!”

“Nor me. Hang on.” Solomon waded back to the riverbank to look for dock leaves. 

Fitzjames didn’t know about those either, and soon got out of his sulk once Tozer showed him how to squeeze the sap out of the thick leaves and rub them over the rash to take the sting out. Three days later he proudly told Solomon he had looked it up in his father’s encyclopaedia of English plants, and that docks were actually called _rumex obtusifolius_.

Solomon smiles to himself at that, and falls asleep trying to remember how to spell it.

* * *

He is locking up to leave early the next morning when he hears footsteps clattering down the street behind him. He turns to find Judith running towards him, her hair already falling out of its plaits, red in the face. She's at a coltish age, all knees and elbows.

“Morning," he says, turning to greet her, "what are you doing here?”

“Boiled eggs,” Judith thrusts a bundle of cloth at him, “from Lydia. She thought you might want something for the journey.”

"Thank you," he accepts the package reluctantly.

"I told her you wouldn't."

"I'm taking them, aren't I? Tell her thank you." He turns away and begins to walk out of the village. After a few paces Judith catches up with him. "Shouldn’t you be getting to school?" He casts her a sideways glance.

"Not for an hour," she shakes her head. She has more of the look of Solomon’s stepfather, Mr Jakes - fine, straight dark hair and a long face. She has always been a very serious girl, a contrast to Isaac, closest to her in age and furthest in temperament.

“Sol?” She asks, half skipping to match his stride.

“Yes, Jude?”

“Can I be your apprentice?”

He looks at her again, almost stopping and shakes his head, “you know it doesn’t work like that.”

“But I’m clever! And I’m strong - I’ll get stronger, I’m only fourteen now.”

“Aye, you are clever. Stick to your lessons, eh? Then maybe you could be a secretary like Becky.”

“I don’t want to be a secretary.”

“You want to be a stonemason?”

“Or a farmer, or a blacksmith, or… or a train conductor, _anything_. Oh go on, Sol, try me out! I could stay up in your loft with you, and I’ll even clean and cook if you want, while I’m still learning.”

“Lydia would have my balls if I let you.”

“ _Lydia_ ," she scoffs.

“Watch it,” he gives her a sharp look, “your sister would do anything for you, you know. She doesn’t deserve the cheek.”

“She said you’d have work once the marble comes in for the big house’s windows, she said you’re going to take on Isaac, and he’s smaller than I am!”

“I never promised. Anyway, Isaac’s a boy, he needs a trade.”

“Sol!”

“Get away with you, I’ve places to be.”

Credit to her, Jude knows when to leave off. He doesn’t expect he has heard the end of it, but he puts it from his mind as he crosses the ford and begins to make his way uphill. It's another fine day, the air is clear and the grass brittle under his feet. It will be a dry summer, he reckons. The bright sky above stretches for miles around and the higher he climbs the further Solomon can see.

The first time he met Fitzjames he was making exactly the same walk up to Cadwallen Hoo with his mother. He must have been nine or ten, an age when he still followed her about. There was something chivalrous about walking his mother to work, and he enjoyed the quiet half an hour every day which belonged to the two of them alone - something rare in their ever-growing household. She was quiet, like him, so neither of them said very much, but that was part of the pleasure of it.

One morning they saw a boy running down the hill, his red face determined, puffing his cheeks out and pumping his arms. When he reached Solomonon and his mother, the boy kept going, running straight past. At the bottom he stopped, bent over to catch his breath, then began running uphill once again.

"Ma, what's that boy doing?"

"Mind your own business. That's Lord Gambier's boy, Master Fitzjames." 

Solomon was only vaguely aware of the youngest Gambier son at that time, not being much interested in his mother's employers. He didn't know where James had come from; as far as Solomon was concerned siblings had a way of piling up like rabbit’s kittens. He was mostly curious about the dark haired boy because he looked about the same age as Solomon, which piqued an interest because Solomon himself had three older sisters, and Samuel and Joshua were still too little to be much fun.

"Can I talk to him?" He tugged his mother’s apron once they reached the top, the dark haired boy not far behind them. 

"What for?"

"He's playing."

His mother looked down at him, then back at Fitzjames, who was shining with sweat but barely flagging yet, "all right, but you be kind to that poor boy, Solomon Tozer."

Solomon promised he would, though he couldn't see what was so poor about the dark haired boy, or why he ought to be especially kind to him. His mother kissed him goodbye and he waited for the boy to reach the top of the hill. When he did, he greeted him,

“Good morning, what are you doing?”

“Training,” the boy panted, wiping his brow and squinting downhill again. They were about the same height at that age, Solomon perhaps a little stockier. 

“What for?” he cocked his head, looking downhill too. 

“I am going away to school next year, and the older boys pick on you if you aren’t fast in Games - my brothers told me.” The boy explained, straightening up, “I’m going to be on the rugby team, and cross country too, if I am good enough.”

“Can I train with you?”

“If you like, but you must keep up, I won’t go slowly for you.”

“Nor will you have to!” Tozer returned, alarmed to have his own athletic ability called into question, and immediately began running downhill as fast as his legs would carry him, the dark haired boy chasing after him crying out,

“That’s cheating!” 

They turned out to be a very good match for each other in most other aspects too, and were firm friends from that day onwards. They both liked the same kind of fun, and nobody ever minded the two of them playing together - Solomon later understood that Fitzjames was different from his older brothers, on account of his mother being another woman. Solomon went up to see him every day that summer, and after school began in September he would head straight for Cadwallen Hoo as soon as the bell rang.

As he approaches the house this morning, the dark glass windows glinting at him and the yellow stucco walls bright as melted butter, it is with the same sense of anticipation, the same eagerness as a boy visiting his best pal. 

There is some excitement taking place on the driveway; a few of the gardeners have stopped working and are standing about on the gravel. Solomon sees Harry Peglar and Magnus again, as well as Tommy Armitage who nods a quiet greeting at Tozer. They are all gathered around a motorcar - brand new by the look of it, gleaming under the summer sun in a glorious shade of dark forest green. It’s a slick machine, all curves and sweeping lines; the seats are deep red leather and the headlights polished to dazzle like two gigantic diamonds. 

James is standing behind this mechanical marvel looking like the cat that got the cream, gesturing grandly at the dials in the rosewood dashboard, explaining something about torque. He looks up when he sees Solomon coming and his smile broadens as he takes a drag on his cigarette. As well as his usual smartly pressed jacket, waistcoat and tie, he has a pair of silver motoring goggles hanging around his neck. 

“Ah, Mr Tozer,” he calls out, causing the other men to turn and then disperse, remembering their duties, “what do you think?"

"Well, have a look at that then," Solomon prods one of the front tires with the toe of his boot, "very fancy bit of kit.”

"If I _must_ be stuck out here, I may as well have the means to escape once in a while." James beams.

"Stuck here," Solomon mutters, casting an eye back over the rolling hillsides, the glorious open sky reaching for miles around. 

"What have you brought?" Fitzjames looks at the bundle Solomon is carrying in one hand. 

He raises it, embarrassed, “Boiled eggs - Lydia trying to keep me fed.”

"She'd get on with Bridgens, he’s packed a feast,” Fitzjames nods at the boot, “thought we might find somewhere to stop on the way back.”

“Fine,” Tozer agrees, aware that while the gardeners are mostly out of earshot, they are still very close to the house. 

“Shall we, then?” Fitzjames drops his cigarette and twists his heel into the gravel, then opens the door on his side and climbs in behind the wheel. Solomon follows suit, finding the leather seats already uncomfortably hot, burning through his trouser legs. “You can put the eggs in here if you like,” Fitzjames opens the glove compartment to pull out a pair of soft kid leather gloves which he pulls onto his long hands and buttons at the wrist. “Ready?” He grins at Solomon, pulling up his goggles next. 

“You’re not going to wear those?” Solomon smirks.

“I absolutely am,” he steps down on the accelerator and the engine growls into life. His excitement is palpable as he turns the wheel and careers onto the driveway, working his way through the gears as they rumble down the gravel path towards the gatehouse. 

During the war Solomon was often in cars - or rather in the back of trucks - and he has travelled on the county omnibus a few times when walking might have taken too long, but neither experience can compare to Fitzjames’ little green racer. Once they are clear of the grounds, turned onto the country road out of Culswen, he presses his foot down harder and they pick up speed until the air is roaring past Solomon’s ears, the fields and trees around them nothing but smears of brown and yellow and green.

“We’ll really open her up now!” Fitzjames shouts over the rattling wind.

Solomon just grins back at him, gripping the metal door, feeling the engine’s vibration shudder through him. 

As distant hills approach with unnatural speed, he begins to see the land of his childhood in a new light; he has a sense of forging a path, as if he can picture them from above, as a hawk might. Their presence is disruptive, the snarl of the engine frightens birds from their trees, sending flocks bursting out of the hedgerows and rabbits leaping across the road flashing their white tails. Together, he and Fitzjames thunder through the valleys like some fearsome beast, and the seat they share rumbles and thrums into Tozer’s bones, making him feel part of the engine, made of steel and fuel and heat. 

He can see why Fitzjames likes it so much.

He always had this power over Solomon; he could change the way he saw familiar things. One word from James and tree trunks became ancient stone columns from a lost civilisation, the little trout stream became the Rubicon; the ice house a cave of treasures. Solomon had never known anyone else who had thoughts like that. Dazzled and amazed, he fell into Fitzjames’ fantasies without question, allowing himself to be led through new and secret landscapes, as distant and as real as the pictures in his magazine.

While Fitzjames was away at boarding school, the months were long and dull. They were filled with grey rain and dark nights, sums and compositions and the wet mulch of dead leaves. Solomon kept to the village and minded his chores and his siblings and caused trouble with the local boys. But every summer he climbed the hill again and entered another world, which had Fitzjames at its centre. 

He thought it would always be that way - or at least that they would always be near each other. But Fitzjames didn't come back from Cambridge the summer after his first year; he went to stay with a new friend he'd met, and at Christmas there was never any time, between church and family and all the traditional festivities. Then the war began, and off Solomon went with every other boy in the village. When he had room to spare a thought for Fitzjames out there in the mud, it was only to be grateful they were not on the same battlefield. 

That doesn’t bear thinking about now, not when the Shropshire hills are green and the sky is blue and all the beauty of the county yawns open before them, waiting and welcoming. Fitzjames is home now, and Solomon is with him. 

Fitzjames doesn’t seem to need a map, he charges on, pushing the engine and testing the limits of the uneven country roads. They turn a corner and begin to wind upwards, the axels groan and the wheels scrabble for purchase. It is a much steeper incline than the modest hilltop Cadwallen Hoo sits on; this is a craggy and untamed slope, the road winds about it, perilously narrow in places. There is not another soul around for miles - no farmland, no villages. If Fitzjames makes one wrong move they could go slipping off the edge and tumble down to the bottom of the valley, and no one would know for days. 

The higher they climb, the further Solomon can see. The landscape looks even wilder, even more desolate, in shades of green, golden yellow, soft granite grey. The line of the horizon is almost blue, and a silver ribbon of river in the distance twists towards a bright spot where the land meets the shimmering sky.

At the summit, or near enough, Fitzjames finally gives over, and rolls slowly to a stop. He pulls off his goggles and rubs his face. The engine stills, and that stange quiet which belongs to all open spaces washes over the hillside. They both stare at the view, breathing as if they’ve run all the way to the top.

After a few moments, Fitzjames turns to him, “we must be more than half way. Time enough to admire the spectacle - I’d rather forgotten how lovely the Hills are.”

Solomon nods. Fitzjames still has pink rings around his eyes from the goggles, and his cheeks are flushed from the wind. 

"What do you think of the car, then?” Fitzjames slaps the side, clanging the metal, “jolly good fun, eh?"

"Didn't know it would go that fast." 

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah," Solomon breathes, running his fingers through his hair, his whole body still humming with unspent excitement. He realises he’s hard; he’s straining against his drawers like a virgin youth. 

He looks over at James again, hair untidy, eyes bright with exhilaration and a smile on his face which makes him look younger than he is, and happier than Solomon has seen him since he returned. 

Licking his lips, Solomon makes a quick decision. 

Shuffling back on the car seat he clears his throat, “keep an eye out, will you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to suck your cock.”

“ _Solomon_!” The half delighted, half aghast look on James’ face is exactly what Solomon was hoping for, and he begins to unbutton James’ trousers, palming him roughly as he does. Fitzjames doesn’t protest, he leans back, pulling his driving gloves off to lay a hand lightly on Solomon’s shoulder. 

The vibrations of the engine must have had Fitzjames similarly affected, because he’s hard too by the time Solomon has his drawers undone, and gasps when Solomon opens his mouth wide to take all of him in. There is some maneuvering required from them both as Solomon slides down into the footwell and James angles his hips towards him, but Solomon is satisfied that he at least has not forgotten how to perform this service.

There is something unthinkable about it; something prohibited, which always sets him burning. Having another man’s prick in your mouth, you at his mercy and he at yours. It could be filthy; coarse and vulgar, but the sweet enjoyment Fitzjames takes from it is so gratifying to Solomon that the first time he did it he went off untouched. 

Even now his cock presses achingly against his trousers, throbbing in sympathetic unison with the movement of his hand on James. He wants to fuck him. He wants to tear down his fancy breeches and bend him over the seat. But they’ve so much of the day yet to enjoy themselves. He curls his tongue, circling James’s tender cockhead before swallowing deeply again, humming low in his throat.

Fitzjames gets fidgety when he’s close, he flexes his legs and his hands dance across Tozer’s hair and back. Solomon tightens his hand around the base of his prick and twists. 

"Um..." James hums low, tapping Solomon lightly on the shoulder - their signal, Solomon had half forgotten it. He nods and grunts in response, bobbing his head and circling his tongue, and James’ fingers tighten in his hair, he pushes up off his seat and spends, not quite silently, into Solomon’s mouth. 

Satisfied, Solomon swallows, then licks long stripes up James' twitching cock until he laughs shakily and pushes him away. Solomon rises, grinning, turning his head and shrugging his shoulder to wipe his chin. 

"Well," James sighs, slumped against the leather seat like a drunkard.

"Better get moving, if we're going to reach Market Drayton before midday," Solomon says, stretching out his neck, leaning back. 

James blinks sleepily, looking over at him. He reaches to place a hand on Solomon’s thigh, long fingers brushing against his stiff prick, “don’t you want…?”

“Later,” Solomon replies, smiling and closing his own hand around James’ wrist, stroking the soft skin on the back of his hand. "There's the journey home, yet."

James’ eyes burn, and he reaches into his pocket for his silver case. He hands Solomon a cigarette and takes one for himself, then finds his matches. Inhaling deeply, Solomon stretches his arms out across the back of the seat and tilts his head back. He watches the white smoke billow upwards as it leaves his chest, into the endless sky. 

* * *

He’s been to Market Drayton a fair few times with John Weekes and then once without him. It’s an ancient town with whitewashed buildings sitting crooked against each other like old teeth. In the June midday sun the stagnant, warm algae smell of the canal permeates everything. 

Fitzjames parks close to the stoneyard, and all of the riverside workers stop to peer at the sharp little motor. They get out and James is smoking again - he seems to require a cigarette to punctuate every circumstance. Solomon sees no need to wait about while Fitzjames shows off, and goes to begin his business with the trader inside the warehouse.

It's comfortingly cool inside, making his warm skin prickle as he crosses into the shade. Enormous blocks of uncut granite and marble line the walls like great tombs, narrow slabs stand upright in wooden brackets like bibles. Solomon read about an artist once who said he could see the statue inside a block of marble, and by carving it he was simply setting it free; giving the stone its true form. Solomon doesn’t pretend to be any great master, but he thinks he can understand that as he walks past the blank blocks of pure white possibility. 

He greets the trader, a man he has dealt with before, and is shown to the blocks Fitzjames requested. He’s still checking the quality by the time Fitzjames finally appears.

“All in order?”

“Seems so,” Solomon nods. He hasn’t found any dull patches, and the size and colour of each block is correct. He licks his index finger to wet it and runs it along one of the darker veins.

“What are you doing now?”

“Checking for cracks.”

“Ah. Any?”

“Don’t think so.”

He inspects each of the blocks in the same manner, taking great care over it before he is completely satisfied. Fitzjames arranges the payment and the transport - the blocks will arrive by next Wednesday, which is the soonest the trader’s son can get the loan of a truck to carry it. 

“More waiting. Everything happens at its own pace, as always,” Fitzjames sighs. They’ve found themselves a pub to stop for a drink before beginning their journey home. The beer is warm, but Solomon is grateful for a breather. 

“S’pose you could get it quicker in London,” he replies, already starting to tire of these little complaints.

“Well, I don’t have forty-seven windows in London,” Fitzjames laughs. “And I’m sure there isn’t a stonemason half as good as you are.”

Solomon snorts and drinks his beer. “How many windows in London, then?”

“It’s only a flat. Six or eight, I think.”

“Sounds pleasant,” Solomon thinks of the one small window above the bed in his loft. 

“Yes, it’s a beautiful place, I wish you could see it - in Bloomsbury, with a view of Russell Square.”

“Very nice.” Solomon has never been to London, only seen pictures. 

“I say,” James sips his beer gingerly, and looks for another cigarette. “They have a foundry next door to the stoneyard, I saw it on the way in.”

“Big town, this,” Solomon grunts in response. 

“You can purchase bronze here too, I’ve no doubt.”

“Probably.” He wishes he hadn’t mentioned bronze - he has no plans really to make sculptures of his whittling, that’s just more wool gathering, like the _Architectural Review_. Once he’s paid his rent on the workshop and seen to his other bills all of his money goes to Lydia for housekeeping and taking care of Judith and Isaac. He’s no spare cash to waste on bronze, of all things.

“Or, I was thinking, perhaps there’s room in your workshop for a furnace - they’re called crucibles, aren’t they?”

“Don’t know where I’d find the time,” Solomon finishes the rest of his glass quickly, “ready to make a move?”

“Oh, all right,” Fitzjames nods, frowning very slightly. 

* * *

The drive out of Market Drayton is more peaceful than the drive in. The roads are still empty, but Fitzjames doesn’t feel the need to make a race of it, and they can enjoy the countryside all the more. They take a different route this time, roughly following part of Offa’s Dyke, an ancient ditch which marks the English border with Wales. According to the lessons Solomon remembers from school, it was first built by King Offa long ago to protect his great kingdom from the invading Welsh. Being that he is half Welsh on his mother’s side, Solomon supposes it was never a very effective border. 

“Hungry?” Fitzjames calls out over the engine.

“Could eat,” Solomon affirms. 

James pulls up onto a grass verge bordering some natural meadow land. There is a hill in the distance, and a collection of tall shady trees, which they set their sights on. Fitzjames opens the boot and heaves out a leather cased picnic hamper and a tartan blanket, which he throws at Solomon before locking up the car and drawing the cover over the seats. Leaving the road behind them, Solomon and James walk out into the meadow, seeking even more seclusion.

It feels good to stretch his legs, and Solomon relishes being out in the open once more, away from the crowds in Market Drayton. A kestrel swoops overhead, looking for prey, and there are brown-patterned snakes winding between the daisies in the long grass. 

“Do you remember the games we used to play?” Fitzjames says, as they walk, “you were a Roman soldier and I was a druid.”

“Or explorers," Solomon smiles. Soon they cannot see the road any more, there is no sign anywhere that they are not the only two people in the world. “Must have covered twenty miles a day, just on the estate.”

“We did get all over the place, didn’t we? It’s a wonder nobody ever came looking for us.”

"Where do you go for walks in London?"

"There are parks all over,” he waves a dismissive hand, “but there is a great deal else to do, besides walking."

"I supposed there must be."

“Shall we stop there?” Fitzjames points at a tree, a sycamore. “A very fine patch of nowhere.”

Solomon agrees and they head towards it, relieved to be under the shade of its great broad branches. “Very fine,” James murmurs to himself as they get situated. He crouches to unpack the food while Solomon spreads out the blanket and then sits to watch him, leaning against the trunk of the tree. 

“Bridgens thinks of everything,” James remarks, opening the hamper to reveal it packed full of boxes and tins and jars and little packages bound up in wax paper. There is even a tiny silver butter dish, and a glass bottle of olive oil. 

There are two bottles of ginger beer too, wrapped in a cloth soaked in cold water which has kept them relatively cool, or at least stopped them getting hot. James passes Solomon one, and he uncrews the cap to drink from it while James carries on fussing over the rest of the food. 

They both take off their jackets, it’s so warm. James is wearing a linen shirt and a cream coloured waistcoat with mother of pearl buttons that glow softly against the cotton. The hours they’ve spent in the sun today have already coloured his skin a shade darker - he never burns like Solomon does, just turns beautiful golden brown all over. It brings out the flecks of green in his eyes; makes him look natural and wild. 

Fitzjames catches him looking and raises an eyebrow, “oh, you just relax, Solomon, I shouldn't want you to strain anything before you get to work on my windows,” he drawls as he lays out plates and jars and little treats and fancies. “Would you like me to _serve_ you, as well?” 

Solomon laughs, "prissy sod. Get over here and kiss me."

There’s no need to hesitate or look around. Fitzjames puts down the dish he’s holding and stands, slowly, walking over to Solomon. Once he has him in his shadow, he drops to squat again, pressing a hand to Solomon’s chest. James' lips are soft and warm against his, his other hand moving to cup Solomon’s face, tilting it upwards. 

They kiss for a long time, in the leisurely way of young lovers. Solomon welcomes James’ weight as he shifts into his lap, astride his legs, and wraps his arms tightly around James' waist to draw him closer still. James' fingers curl in his beard, rasping against the coarse whiskers, his other stroking the wooden buttons on his shirt. He begins to pick them apart, one by one, moving to kiss Solomon’s neck, starting beneath his chin and crossing his Adam's apple. 

Solomon sighs, letting his head fall back gently against the trunk to relinquish more territory to James' warm mouth. At the same time, he gets to work on James' overdone outfit: his tie, his waistcoat, the buttons on his shirt. 

They have to separate to pull the rest of their clothes off, and leave their shirts and trousers strewn about the grass in all directions. There’s enough room on the blanket for them both, and James goes easily onto his back when Solomon pushes him down, lying only half on top of him. His prick, roused to attention once more, slides against the soft skin of James’ thigh as Solomon presses himself against him, kissing him thoroughly with lips and tongue while James’s long fingers caress the length of his body. 

Feeling reckless and indulgent as the fervour in his lower regions begins to simmer, Solomon moves his hand to James’ prick. He strokes him firmly from base to tip, up and down a few times until James is moaning into his mouth, holding onto Solomon’s shoulders. 

As Solomon’s grip grows tighter, so does James’ until he turns his head away, eyes shut, gasping, “Solomon, please, I’m-- ”

Solomon stops at once, moving his hand to James’s hip, stroking there instead as he kisses him deeply, then moves again to grasp his backside, squeezing just enough to make James buck up against him, their bodies sliding together again, causing Solomon to shiver.

“Want it?” He asks, squeezing again, breathing roughly against James’s cheek. 

“Very much,” James nods, beads of sweat springing on his brow. 

Solomon grins and kisses him again before drawing back fully, sitting up on his knees. James is gorgeous spread before him, chest heaving, prick bobbing against his belly. Solomon casts about and alights on the bottle of olive oil, picking it up triumphantly. 

“Shall I..?” James begins to sit up, making to roll over, but Solomon shakes his head, laying a hand on his chest.

“Stay like that,” he says, pushing him down again. He grabs him by the hips to align him, and James parts his legs enough for Solomon to kneel between them as he uncorks the vial of oil. “Ready?” He pours a little out onto his hand. It’s so warm and slick his cock jumps as he rubs his fingers together. 

James nods, eyes bright with desire. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth and inclines his hips upwards as Solomon carefully strokes his wet fingers against his entrance. He presses slowly, in inches, and with the oil in his other hand he pours out even more. He uses much more than he really needs to; it drips over James’ cock and into the creases of his thighs, but he cannot resist the way it looks on his skin. James groans, pushing back against him, and Solomon casts away the oil to lean over James and kiss him again as his fingers sink in all the way, up to the knuckle. He holds them there for a few moments to allow James to find the motion he prefers, rocking forward and down, until he begins to paw at Solomon, trying to pull him close.

Withdrawing himself again quickly to readjust, Solomon hurriedly grasps his own straining prick to direct himself into James. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he grunts as he enters him, one long smooth movement which brings their hips hard together, James’ feet scrabbling against the blanket for purchase. He eventually settles for wrapping his legs around Solomon’s waist, directing the angle by digging his heels in. 

Solomon makes slow, shallow thrusts at first, luxuriating in the hot, tight feeling and the way James’ well-oiled cock ruts against his belly. They are pressed together at every point, nothing but sweat and oil between them, and the longer they remained locked in congress, the harder James pushes up against him, urging Solomon on. 

It isn’t the usual sort of intimacy between old friends, he knows that. They are abnormal, unnatural, and a host of other words Solomon isn’t sure he really believes in. But he knows enough of the world now to hold his affection for James above all of that. They have always been well matched in temper, strength, endurance and humour. Fucking each other brings a satisfying wholeness to their friendship, and has never felt anything other than perfectly natural. 

Their soft cries and moans echo out across the empty fields, carried on the warm summer breeze which rustles the leaves above them, the shifting pattern of shadows sliding across James’ reddening face. It is everything Solomon remembered; everything he has kept to himself in a beloved and secret place all of these years. 

James rocks up again, urgently, and unwinds his legs to find an even closer angle. Anticipating this, Solomon pulls back, heaving one of James’ legs over his own shoulder so that he may drive in all the deeper. James makes a gutteral sound which ends in a sharp gasp, his head rolling back on the blanket, jaw slack as Solomon begins to fuck him properly, thrusting his prick into him over and over with brutish energy. 

Muttering a string of filthy curses, James takes himself in hand, rubbing harder and faster to keep pace. He’s a fine sight, writhing beneath Solomon, pinned to the blanket with sweat pouring down his flushed neck. Solomon can feel his own pleasure hurtling towards him, a long sought after release which has been building all day, and though he is usually proud in his lovemaking, this time he doesn’t think he has the forbearance to resist it.

“Soon,” he hisses through his teeth, and James gulps, opening his eyes and nodding eagerly, grasping the back of Solomon’s neck, pulling him down to his lips.

“Yes, yes,” he whispers, kissing him hard, his hand still working furiously between their bodies. Solomon groans, elated, and jerks his hips harder, out of time, in search of his own greedy bliss.

It seems to him that they peak at the same time - or within a hair’s breadth of each other - there is such a frenzied eruption of intensity inside Solomon he cannot tell how long it lasts, or whether the sounds he hears are him, or James. Once again, he has the queer notion that he can see himself from above; as if for a few moments he has burst out of himself and up into the sycamore branches before falling back to earth, slumping forward in James’ arms.

Limbs heavy and mind empty, Solomon lies slack against James, resting his cheek on his damp shoulder. James strokes his hair, lays a kiss on the top of his head. Recovering, Solomon gets up, hot and sticky and satisfied. 

He lies on his back next to James, fingers grazing his thigh affectionately.

“If only we were at the summerhouse,” James says, his voice low and ragged. He clears his throat, “I could do with a swim in the lake.”

Solomon agrees that would be very pleasant indeed, but is content enough to stretch out on the blanket in the shade, allowing the soft afternoon breeze to blow across his skin and cool him that way. 

"Can't do it outdoors in London, I'll bet."

“Hmm,” Fitzjames murmurs, throwing an arm over his face. “No, I think that might cause rather a sensation.”

Solomon chuckles and reaches for the warm bottle of ginger beer and swigs. He is hungry now, he rolls onto his belly, sprawling out across the blanket to pick at the grapes, then inspects the cheese. There are three kinds, and he selects the one he recognises as cheddar, tearing apart a loaf of crusty bread. Somehow he doesn’t fancy Lydia’s boiled eggs, still locked in the glove compartment of the car. 

“Want anything?” He asks, mouth half full. James moves his arm from his face and sits up, rolling his shoulders.

“Yes, actually, I’m starving.”

They eat a very cheerful meal together, saying little and smiling often. They don’t get dressed, there isn’t any need too; it reminds Solomon of their youth, uninterrupted hours lounging about in the summer house on the grand estate. 

When they are finished and Fitzjames has tidied things away, he lies down again, resting his head on Solomon’s thigh. He sighs deeply. “Delicious.”

“Mm.”

“If I lie here much longer I’ll fall asleep.”

“You can, if you like. We’ve nowhere to be for hours.”

“That’s a nice thought,” James says, his eyelids slowly falling shut.

Solomon smiles down at him, and moves his hand to stroke his hair. He looks peaceful - happy, even out here in their ‘patch of nowhere’. 

It isn’t like Solomon at all, perhaps he’s still feeling impressionable, but the question slips out before he has even finished thinking it. "Why did you never come back?"

James stiffens, his eyes fly open. He turns his head to look up, “Solomon...”

"No, I know what you'll say,” Tozer scratches his head, not sure how to turn things around again. “But not even a Christmas? Not one summer, after the war."

James sits up, grabbing for his trousers strewn on the other side of the blanket and searching through the pockets for his cigarette case, “I knew I would have to come back, eventually, and be here forever. I suppose I wanted to make the most of my freedom while I had it.”

Solomon cannot imagine the kind of freedom Fitzjames desires. 

"It wasn’t personal,” James insists, though Solomon doesn’t think he knows what he’s saying.

“All right,” he replies. He thinks about getting dressed, looks about blearily for his clothes. 

“Anyway, _you_ didn't have to stay here," Fitzjames is saying now, "you could have gone anywhere you liked."

“I like it here,” Solomon answers, “I couldn't feel free anywhere else.”

James looks at him for a long time, puffing grey smoke. “Let’s not argue,” he says, finally.

“Who’s arguing?”

“Then let’s not talk about it. I’m here now, aren’t I?” he offers Solomon a cigarette from his case, and Solomon takes it, matches too. That seems to reassure James, and he settles beside Solomon leaning against the tree trunk. Their shoulders press together and an ant which has been making its way across Solomon’s knee begins to cross over to James’. 

As Solomon lights his cigarette a stronger wind picks up high in the treetop, shaking loose some of the winged sycamore seeds which flutter down towards them in spirals, landing on their naked skin. They brush them away, James holds one up between his fingers. 

“Look,” he says, his voice cheerful again, “ _Acer pseudoplatanus_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "A Shropshire Lad 35: On the idle hill of summer" by A.E. Housman
> 
> Coming soon: A VISITOR FOR JAMES - DRUNKEN ANTICS - MISUNDERSTANDINGS 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. A visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a thousand and one thank yous to kt_fairy for encouragement and editing!

_How sacred and how innocent_

_A country life appears;_

_How free from tumult, discontent,_

_From flattery or fears!_

“I must get back to work,” Solomon says, lying on his front with his head resting on his folded arms. "Though I don’t know how I'll get anything done."

“No peace for the wicked,” James replies, drying his face at the wash stand. Solomon has left out an ashtray for him, presumably so that James will stop flicking his spent cigarettes into the basin. He lights one now, inhaling deeply, feeling almost perfectly content. 

He turns to look at Tozer, lying still on the bed with his eyes closed, golden hair and gleaming skin and not a stitch of clothing; stretched over the disarranged blankets like a sleeping Apollo. He has no idea how perfectly indecent he looks - and how romantic. Men like Solomon are highly sought after as models in certain artistic circles in London, and James takes a particular smug pleasure in having the sight all to himself.

James has been down to visit Tozer’s workshop at least three or four afternoons a week since his return - the convenience being that the whole village knows he has business with the stone mason anyway. It’s an uneven arrangement; Solomon has not come up to Cadwallen Hoo since the day they drove to Market Drayton.

“You're no good for business,” Solomon murmurs drowsily.

“Take the afternoon off,” James suggests, returning to the bed to find his own clothes.

“What would my employer say?” Solomon turns his head slyly to look at him, rolling onto his side to make room as James sits to pull up his trousers.

“Oh yes,” James chortles, “I hear he’s a dreadful tyrant.” 

“Impossible,” Solomon confirms, sitting up. He reaches into the pile of clothes at the end of the bed and fishes out his pocket watch, tutting, “you’d better not come again until I’ve got the windows cut - be a late one tonight if I want them ready to shift by Monday.”

“I’ve said before, I don’t mind how long it takes you, there’s no rush to have the work finished. It isn’t as if I have anyone to entertain up there.”

“Perhaps not,” Solomon says, climbing out of bed to use the basin, “but I've men expecting a day’s work and a day’s wages."

“Of course,” James nods, now in his socks. He stands to stub out his cigarette in the dish. He’d like another, but clearly Solomon wants him out. 

"Besides, I’ve the lend of Hartnell’s shire horse on Monday morning to get all the stone up there," Tozer says, wiping between his legs with the flannel James just dabbed his face with, “Reminds me - I've a need to take on more men than I expected, for the job. I can give you their references -"

"Oh, I trust you. Hire as many as you need. Village men?"

"Most of them," Solomon bobs his head, flinging the flannel into a corner, "and a fella’ who came through last week - he's staying at The Ship at present, came by looking for work."

"I had no idea anyone ever passed through Culswen," James remarks ruefully. 

"It's uncommon, I grant you,” Tozer snorts, reaching past James for his clothes, “useful to have an extra hand at any rate."

"You are welcome to make use of my gardeners - I'm sure I can spare them a few days."

"There's a thought,” Solomon nods again, looking down to button his trousers, “I know Armitage is keen - keeps on at me to train him up, but the job isn’t regular enough since half the countryside cleared out to Shrewsbury."

James can't help feeling surprised that Tozer knows Thomas Armitage, one of the odd jobs-men at Cadwallen Hoo, who comes in two days a week to keep an eye on the hedges. But of course Tozer must know everyone on James' staff, they were his schoolmates after all; he grew up with them, and even now they are the men he drinks with on his evenings in The Ship. 

Somehow James has always struggled to connect Solomon with the mundane life of Culswen. When they are together they hardly speak about the village, and even here in Solomon's suspended attic room he feels as if they are somewhere else entirely.

Tozer continues to dress, pulling on his shirt and buckling his braces. James watches him from the bed, itching for another cigarette, but abstains, instead screwing the lid back on the jar of vaseline which lies discarded amongst the tangle of bedclothes. Not as decadent as olive oil, but Solomon hadn’t complained. James licks his lips, casting another wanton glance at Tozer, now in search of socks. Their frequent afternoons together are perfectly delightful, but whether it’s the boredom he faces at Cadwallen Hoo or some primal need to make up for lost time, James finds himself feeling peculiarly bereft after each visit, and already planning the next. 

“I shan’t come tomorrow, then, if you’ve work to do,” he says, hoping Tozer will pick up on the inquiring edge to his voice. He doesn’t, or if he does then he won’t suffer it,

“I’ll be up to you, anyway,” he shrugs.

“You will?” James blinks, surprised.

“More measuring,” Tozer says, distractedly, still trying to find his left sock, now crouching to peer underneath the bed, “setting up the scaffolding, that sort of thing. Prepare for Monday.”

“Goodness, you’re getting it done early.”

“Take half a day, most like - more if the lads don’t know what they’re doing - and I don’t work Sundays. Better a Saturday morning and I can send them home early.” He resurfaces triumphant, and sits beside James once more to get his boots on.

“Sounds sensible.”

James doesn’t know what Tozer does with his Sundays, but he assumes it’s the same as every other villager - Church and family. As James belongs to neither he most often treats it as an ordinary day, exceptional only because it is Bridgens' afternoon off, so he must prepare his own meals. 

“I say,” he says, nudging Solomon with his shoulder, “I thought I’d go and open up the summer house this weekend.”

“And _I_ say you’ll find it needs a good airing,” Tozer teases, nudging him back as his foot drops heavily. “And watch out for rats, it's been locked up since you went away to Cambridge. I’d put down traps, if I were you.”

That stands to reason, James supposes. The pavilion was originally built for the family’s pleasure; a place to lounge about in on warm days and enjoy the lake. Perhaps previous generations of Gambiers had enjoyed it - James could imagine Edwardian ladies in white linen dresses and lace parasols having picnics in the shade there, young men taking row boats out for a paddle - but his stepmother had been nervous around bodies of water, and so the family had never used it at all. As far as he knew, no one but himself and Tozer had been inside for at least forty years. 

“Would you like to come with me? As you’ll be at the house anyway?”

Solomon eyes him knowingly, grinning, “reckon I could spare an hour or so.”

“Marvellous,” James smiles back. All is well, then, Solomon simply needs to be invited. If he only wishes to come up to the house for work then James supposes it must be his pride; Solomon will not go to James for anything; to him it would be like begging. 

“ _Marvellous_ ,” Solomon repeats. His eyes are twinkling, he’s teasing again. “I’ve missed you and your words.”

“My words,” James laughs, “is that all?"

“For now,” Solomon leans in to kiss him, a warm hand on his knee. He gives it a light slap when he moves away again to stand, “right, I’ve work to do, if you’ll be so kind.”

He doesn’t ask what James plans to do with the rest of his afternoon, and perhaps James oughtn’t expect him to. They walk the line between friends and lovers without much success, neither quite sure how to behave when the business of everyday life forces them to change tack. 

Anyway, James has no plans for his afternoon. He dealt with his correspondence this morning, he has almost completed reviewing his inventory of Cadwallen Hoo’s art collection (alas, no hidden treasures - largely copies after the Flemish school, one of Lely’s beauties and an adoration-and-shepherds of dubious provenance). All that remains is to decide what he will keep and which rooms he would like to renovate. Somehow he isn’t in the mood for such an enormous task, though he can hardly complain about it to the man who has spent three weeks carving twelve window frames for him. 

He follows Solomon down the narrow staircase into the workshop and goes to unlock the carriage doors himself, as has become his habit. 

As he’s passing a workbench he spies a small slab of recently carved stone, fresh and bright - he peers at it curiously and finds it is a plaque - presumably for a house, for it has the number fifteen carved into it. About the size of a dinner plate, Solomon has decorated it with a wreath of finely hewn wildflowers across the top, and a fox at the bottom, its sleek body curling around the number with an inquisitive pointed face and bushy tail. 

“This is charming,” James comments, reaching out to stroke the fox's ear.

“Wedding gift,” Tozer looks up from his tools, “for my sister. Marrying the Hartnell boy in August.”

“Which sister?”

“Rhoda.”

"And she was one of the little ones!"

"Twenty-two, this past February. Nice age to marry, so Lydia tells me. Fond of foxes, Rhoda is,” he explains, still setting up, typing his apron around himself. James considers himself dismissed. 

“Tomorrow, then,” he calls as he leaves, and Tozer nods and smiles as he takes up his chisel. 

Leaving the cool and peaceful atmosphere of the workshop behind him, James is met by a gust of stifling warm air, thick with the strong earthy scent of the red and pink geraniums bursting from the window boxes outside the pub. Straightening his back and shoulders, squinting against the bright early-afternoon sun he begins his quiet walk home with a display of purpose and confidence he does not feel. 

He could telephone Dundy - it is Friday, and he generally leaves his office at the Royal Geographical Society early to begin the weekend. Mind you, James thinks, Dundy will no doubt have far more exciting things to do with his evening than jaw away with his exiled friend.

Solomon showed little interest when James had his telephone installed two weeks ago - “what for?” he asked, in the blunt and stupid way he always does when James brings up something he thinks is trivial - or related to London (a topic James has stopped raising, it seems to be such a dreadul crime).

“To talk to people, of course.”

“Right.”

“Or in case of an emergency,” James had added, feeling prickly. “What if there was a fire in the village?”

“Don’t know what good a telephone would do,” Tozer snorted, “anyway, there’s one in The Ship, behind the bar - the working men’s club all put in for it a few years ago.”

“Well I didn’t know about that.”

“Weren’t here, were you?”

And around they went - these kinds of conversation were growing increasingly tiresome, and most infuriatingly, James never seemed to be able to see them coming. He was sure they had never been so pettish when they were young, but James supposes everything had been simpler before there was a war and six years between them. 

It isn’t worth dwelling on; other than the occasional landmine, their arrangement suits them, and it is something of a novelty for James to have regular and reliable companionship. 

Not that he has ever been _without_ _company_ , of course, only that the quality of his companions has varied considerably over the years.

In one sense, James’ maladroit early experiences with Solomon represented a loss of innocence - or if not _innocence_ , then at least James had lost his _ignorance_ to Tozer, for which he will be eternally grateful. He has never needed to wonder what kind of man he is, or where his preferences lie, having swiftly settled a question which he has seen men ten or even twenty years his senior wrestle sorely with. 

But in another sense, while James emerged from his youth no stranger to sex and desire, those wide-eyed summers beneath bold blue skies and canopies of oak and willow with his dear friend had not prepared him for the world at large, and when he entered Cambridge at eighteen he was still very much an innocent in every other way.

An artless and ambitious youth, James had not known how to be careful; he gave of himself too freely and as a result his heart was - if never _quite_ broken - often bruised. Wit was everything at Cambridge, and sincerity often laughable. He had to learn to be skeptical; to parry insults and flattery alike. By Easter term he had sharpened up considerably, and then the war came along to ensure that any lingering remnants of naivety were swiftly shaken out.

His approach to sex since the war has been prudent as a matter of necessity, but never prudish. He has made a point to enjoy himself when opportunities arise, but never with anyone who has less to lose than he does in being found out. Married men are ideal for this purpose, and there are always plenty of those in the clubs on Denmark Street.

Since his foolish first year at St Catherine’s College James has become quicker in his judgments; never without a friend, but never devoted to anyone but himself.

As he climbs uphill in the golden afternoon sun he wonders vaguely whether Solomon’s experiences have mirrored his own, but he supposes not. Solomon is one of those types who ‘speaks both languages’ - that is, he gets on with women just as well as men, so it likely doesn’t even signify - he has always been unaccountably guileless about the topic. 

When he reaches the house James circles around to use the kitchen entrance as usual, casting a glance out at the grounds to see if he can spy the roof of the summerhouse in the cluster of trees by the lake at the bottom of the hill. He doesn’t think he can - it is very well hidden, designed that way to prevent spoiling the view. 

The kitchen door sits open to let the cool air in, and James enters to find Bridgens standing at the sink, looking uncharacteristically ruffled.

“Good afternoon, Bridgens,” James says cheerily.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Bridgens turns to him, blinking slowly. 

“You haven’t seen the key to the summerhouse, have you? I haven’t a clue where it might be.”

“The summerhouse, sir?”

“Yes, the little cottage by the lake - thought I’d air it out over the weekend, perhaps lay some traps in case there are rats.”

“I haven’t seen it sir, I could ask the gardeners, perhaps.” He is standing rather oddly, stiff backed, arms at his sides.

“I say, are you all right?” James inquires, “you look a bit peaky.”

“Yes, sir,” Bridgens nods, blinking again, “quite well, sir.”

“Supper at six?”

“Yes, sir - I thought perhaps _escalope de boeuf_.”

“Rather lavish for just the two of us.”

“Yes, sir,” Bridgens replies again, with a strange tick of his left eyebrow, his eyes darting to the china dresser. 

For a moment James wonders if he has broken something, and is about to reassure his valet that he has no sentimental attachment to anything in the house, when the dresser shivers, the china inside rattling. James throws a questioning look at Bridgens, who says nothing, before approaching the suspicious cabinet.

He has taken not two steps forward when the lower cupboard doors fly open, and out bursts an imp in a white linen suit, rolling forward and landing neatly on the flagstones at James' feet. 

“Ah ha! I surprised you, didn’t I!”

The imp grins up at him, his silvery hair falling foppishly into his eyes, his eyes bright with boyish glee. He holds a hand out and James takes it, hauling him to his feet, “you blackgard,” James beams, “what do you mean by attacking me in my home?”

“When I arrived to find you absent I knew there was only one course of action available to me - and I am afraid I made poor Bridgens here my accomplice.”

“Quite all right, sir,” Bridgens smiles meekly, clearly relieved to return to his work and leave all subterfuge behind. He addresses James now, nervousness vanished, “perhaps you and Mr Le Vesconte would like tea?”

“No need, my good man,” Dundy declares, striding over to the refrigerator (another of James’ recent modernisations) as though he is in his own kitchen. He pulls open the door and withdraws a bottle of champagne, “my dear Jim, if you’ll source me some glasses?”

No sooner has James turned to look than Bridgens has handed him a pair of crystal champagne coupes, “I shall see to the guest room, sir, I presume Mr Le Vesconte will be staying a night or two.”

“Ah, yes - the room next to mine, if you please? Thank you, Bridgens,” James accepts the glasses.

“Come along then,” Dundy calls out in his pleasant, light baritone, already marching out of the kitchen and into the house, “show me around the old place!”

“You’ve done a very fine job making yourself at home as it is,” James hurries to catch him up, throwing an apologetic glance back at a very amused Bridgens as he does.

“You know me, always best to reconnoiter the kitchen as early as possible when visiting - lets a man know what he’s in for. Don’t worry, I’ve hardly seen the rest of the house except for on the drive up - I say, magnificent country you’ve got out here.”

“Don’t be optimistic about it Dundy, dear, it’s too bad of you,” James admonishes, falling into a brisk step with his friend as they rattle their way up the stone servants’ hallway. At the end of the passage lies the green baize door; the unobtrusive, discreet entrance to the rest of the house which remains largely shut up, James hardly using any rooms but the kitchen and his bedroom. 

“Not at all, old boy,” Dundy retorts, “I think it’s splendid. Now, I have come to tell you precisely three things - _firstly_ that London is a filthy bore without you; secondly that you are a vicious cad for keeping away so long, and thirdly, that I have fallen in love.” 

“My goodness,” James says, cooly, “what an agenda. Well I hardly know where to take you, every room is vile.” He pushes open the door and they arrive in the house proper.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dundy says, peering about eagerly at the chaos of china ornaments, gilded frames and dark mahogany, “it’s just as I hoped it would be. You don’t know how soothing it is to find oneself in a proper English country home after all that dreadful _Art Nouveau_ nonsense they’re pushing for in London - I mean, Mr Mackintosh’s chairs all look very well in a gallery, but they’re hardly comfortable, are they? Sometimes one wants to just flop out on an overstuffed settee.”

“All you ever do is flop out on overstuffed settees,” James raises an eyebrow.

“Awful way to treat a chap who’s just motored two hundred miles to see you, old boy.”

“Hardly two hundred - an inconsequential one-fifty. But thank you,” James added earnestly, directing Dundy into the parlor. 

Of course this room delights him - chintz upholstery abounds; sofas and armchairs swathed in pastel pink and green laid over a rather unsavoury beige. The carpets are shockingly red, as is the silk wallpaper - which is beginning to peel away, and would look even shabbier if Bridgens hadn’t spent an afternoon last week fixing down the corners with drawing pins. The curtains have been taken down for cleaning, and to prepare for the renovations of the windows. This is the room’s only saving grace, as far as James is concerned; sunlight fills every inch of it, illuminating the gold panels and the Georgian pastoral landscapes which hang in every alcove. 

“Charming!” Dundy declares, striding to the nearest sofa and collapsing into it like an old hunting hound, popping the cork on his bottle with one thumb. James sets the glasses down on the small Japanese lacquer table and finds them promptly filled.

It is very easy for Dundy to feel at home here; he grew up in a house very much like Cadwallen Hoo. James was invited to spend Christmas at Morwellham Park after their first term at Cambridge, and had enjoyed his time there so much he’d returned for the entire summer as well. It was just as remote as Cadwallen Hoo, and perhaps less beautiful, but the Le Vescontes were such splendid people, each successive member as warm and garrulous as the last. Dundy’s sisters made a pet of James, their mother taught him to cheat at rummy, and Mr Le Vesconte engaged him in all manner of conversation; from the best bowling action for cricket to the parliamentary budget, eventually proclaiming him ‘a very brainy chap’. James had felt cherished there, in a way that made it very difficult to return to the Gambier’s home, even after the war.

“It’s the name I like most of all,” Dundy says, finishing his first glass in two quick gulps, “ _Cadwallen HOO_! Like a hunting cry, eh?”

“It’s ridiculous and you know it.”

“ _Cadwallen WHOM_?!” Dundy bellows, forcing James to splutter with laughter and choke on his own drink.

They finish the bottle within the hour, and James' head is fizzing by supper time. Conversation with Dundy is rather like a bottle of champagne - sparkling, unpredictable, and rather easy to be carried away by. The object of Dundy's affection, it transpires, is a young Russian ballerina, a Miss Natasha Tarasova.

“She played Medora in _Le Corsaire_ ,” he sighs, eyes glazing over as he gazes wistfully out of the window, “all in white gossamer, flitting across the stage like a dandelion. I was utterly helpless.”

"What on earth were you doing at the ballet?" Janes asked, incredulous.

"Escorting my favourite aunt, of course." He need not say which was his favourite - Henry Le Vesconte has no less than five maiden aunts, all of them are immensely wealthy and all of them dote on him. For - despite appearances - James’ amiable friend is not one of those aristocratic wastrels the tabloids so delight in vilifying. 

It is true that he surrounds himself with the trappings of that set; the fashionable clothes, the jazz music, the endless bottles of champagne. He has a nose for sniffing out a good party, and (as he is in the process of demonstrating this very evening) can drink anyone under the table, but he also has a very respectable position at the Royal Geographical Society and one of the finest minds of anyone James has ever met. He exercises, he attends church, he is kind to his sisters. It just happens that when it comes to matters of the heart, Dundy is rather less astute. 

"She is perfection," he sighs, as they trail back to the kitchen for dinner. “I sent flowers every night for a week before she’d agree to meet me at the stage door - of course Charlewood thought I’d lost my marbles, but what does he know about the art of courtship? She’s awfully clever and witty - in that dry sort of way the Russians have, you know. Keeps me on my toes. You’ll adore her, Jim.”

“I have no doubt,” James slurs. 

He’s grateful for the beef cutlets and hearty helping of steamed cabbage with cream to line his stomach for the rest of the evening - and there is even a fruit salad for dessert. James can only marvel at Bridgens’ unfathomable ability to pull together a fine supper in a few short hours.

“Had I known you were coming, Mr Le Vesconte,” Bridgens explains apologetically as he tops up their glasses in the dining room, where he insisted the young men take their meal, “I’d have sent to the village for calf’s foot and made you a jelly.”

“Bridgens you spoil me,” Dundy says, as if everybody does not spoil him. “There’s really no need to go to any trouble.”

“Nevertheless, sir, if you are planning to stay until Sunday I’m sure I could arrange it.”

“What does Lord Jim here pay you? I’ll double it.”

“Very good, sir,” Bridgens smiles. 

After supper they drink even more, Dundy has bought a case with him. 

They wander the empty house, flicking light switches and lighting matches to see by. They roar with laughter into the dusty mirrors of the empty ballroom, they sit side by side on top of the dining room table eating dessert, they play a hectic game of bowls with the heavy balls in the billiards room and Dundy thumps away on the grand piano, singing 'There's life in the old girl yet' at the top of his voice.

“I say, I don’t know what you’re complaining about, this is a very jolly place to find oneself the master of.” He says once he’s finally worn out.

“You would say so,” James replies, his head still ringing. “Come now, I know how you feel about tradition, but even you have to admit the furnishings are hideous and the art completely dull.”

“So refurbish,” Dundy shrugs, “rich enough, aren’t you? Start your own art collection, become the envy of the county. Isn’t it the point of being a country squire?”

“I can’t say I ever gave it a great deal of thought.”

“No, that’s very like you. Last bottle?” 

They return to the kitchen again to find Bridgens has long since retired. There are in fact two bottles remaining in the refrigerator, and they take one apiece, deciding to polish them off in the parlour, where most of the lightbulbs are still in working order. 

"Were you ever this drunk before in this house?" Dundy asked when they were back on the chintz couch, both tired and befuddled.

"Only the grounds," James replies, drinking directly from the bottle. His shoes have come unlaced at some point and he kicks them off, slumping down into the cushions. Perhaps there is something to be said for comfortable furnishings, after all. "With the cook's son. Never indoors, Mother wouldn’t have it."

"Who?"

“Lady Gambier, you know, my stepmother.”

“No, I mean who did you drink with?”

"Oh,” James scratches his head, yawning, “The cook had a boy my age. I know I’ve told you. We used to play together."

"Ah yes," Dundy nods slowly, “...do I remember there being rather more to the tale?” He slumps down beside James, jabbing him with a bony elbow.

"I tell you altogether too much."

"Oh come, it’s a very sweet story. Your very own ‘Shropshire lad’."

"Give over," James bats at him listlessly with his hand. "He made summers bearable, anyway."

"You know I hate it when you have other friends."

"You are my very dearest, Dundy."

"Hm." His tone has changed, James’ ears prick and he twists his neck to look at his friend properly.

"Feeling all right, old boy?”

“Yes, I am,” Dundy heaves himself upright, “but what about you, eh? If I may be serious for a moment.” 

“I suppose you may, as you are a guest,” James waits with bated breath as Dundy fixes him with an exacting look. 

“When are you coming back to Bloomsbury? The gang misses you dreadfully, it’s not the same without you.”

“Perhaps in the autumn, for a visit,” James replies evenly. “There’s an awful lot to see to - all my refurbishments, for example.”

“What about work?”

“Oh, I was never really working, was I? A few drawings a month in _The Lady_.”

“Paid you, didn’t they? I thought you enjoyed it.”

“You said it yourself, I’m rich enough.”

“Don’t tell me you’re retiring, old man!”

“Perhaps I’ll take up gardening,” James smiles, trying to lighten the topic. His head is beginning to ache, he doesn’t feel like a castigation, “...or become a country poet.”

“Heaven forfend,” Dundy cackles, creasing up. “No, it’s too maudlin, Jim, I won’t have it,” he wipes his eyes, “I'm going to get the whole gang up for your birthday - I say, there’s an idea; we'll do fancy dress, give you an excuse to drag up."

"It's too far for everybody to come."

"Poppycock, they love a novelty, the degenerates. I'll see to everything - I'll bring Natasha. You'll adore her I promise you."

"You're too good to me, old boy."

"Really,” Dundy fixes him with a remarkably sober gaze, clear as glass, “no one has forgotten you, so you needn’t play the martyr."

After that it is most certainly time for bed, and they both stumble together through the dark, up two flights of stairs to the east wing of the house. Once Dundy is settled and has declared every element of his quarters “absolutely ripping,” James is extremely grateful to close his own door and listen to the quiet noises of the walls settling.

His bedroom is very spare; he had almost every decorative item removed, and even took down the bed hangings, making do with only a dresser for his clothes and a mirror for his vanity. 

In the Bloomsbury flat everything was sleek and modern, with a mint coloured carpet and a beautiful polished walnut bedroom suite. James has struggled to sleep in this worn out old museum ever since he returned - though tonight should be no problem at all, he thinks, eyes groaning with tiredness and feet tripping over each other as he undresses. He can hear Dundy pottering about in the next room, humming to himself, and is barely under the covers before he falls sound asleep. 

* * *

He dreams of his childhood, yet another memory of Solomon which flutters up in his subconscious unbidden. 

They were thirteen or so, and one dismal, rain soaked afternoon forced them into the house. They were trying to avoid being seen in case somebody sent Solomon home, or made them stay in the kitchen, and James had the idea that the best thing to do was to creep up into the attic and hide. He had found his way up there a few days before and discovered a trunk which had an antique sabre inside, so he was thrilled to have an opportunity to show Tozer.

They'd stared at the gleaming weapon in awe before either of them worked up the nerve to touch it, lifting it carefully out of the deep chest. It was heavier than either of them had expected, and James promptly dropped it, resulting in a heavy clunk on the floorboards, which made them hurry to put it back for fear of being found out. 

It didn't stop them exploring the attic, home to all sorts of curiosities and treasures. There were enormous oil paintings and chests of old silverware; ancient pieces of furniture covered with dust sheets, an old steel-hooped cage crinoline and a moth-eaten mounted deer head, antlers and all. 

Eventually they uncovered a trunk of old clothes, which must have been packed away since James’ grandmother’s heyday. There were lace shifts and stiff corsets and a pile of jewel coloured evening gowns in silk, velvet and satin, the beadwork still largely intact. 

Solomon let out a low appreciative whistle when James held one up to the light, "reckon my sisters would give their front teeth for a fine frock like that."

"Do you think it fine?" James had asked cautiously, not quite sure what he was feeling.

"Thing like that," Tozer gave it an appraising look, nodding solemnly. 

"I'm going to put it on," James said suddenly, taking off his coat. 

"Why?" 

"It'll be a lark - here, help me --" he handed Solomon the heavy dress and shrugged out of his shirt next, standing there in his undervest and trousers. "How do I get into it?"

"Like this," Solomon rucked up the gown to find the neck through the skirt and raised it up over James' head all in a pile. James stretched his arms out and together they wrestled him into it with the careless clumsiness of adolescents, almost tearing the antique garment more than once. 

Though it was too tight in the sleeves and gaped at the front, everywhere else the gown was just about the right size for James, who had recently shot up a few inches and at nearly fourteen now towered over his stepmother and both of his brothers.

It itched once he had it on, and his throat felt frightfully exposed, but he never forgot the singular feeling of the voluminous fabric dropping over his hips and falling to sweep about his ankles, nor the way the bodice felt when he turned and it pulled at his waist, making his body feel suddenly changed, so that his movements and his posture became someone else's entirely. 

He would certainly never forget the expression of pleasant surprise on Solomon's face as he looked him up and down and said with delight, "fits you just right, that does, look, the skirt doesn't even drag," he plucked at the fabric.

“Looks rather rum with my oxfords on,” James looked down at his feet, the patent leather toes of his shoes peering out beneath the embroidered hem. 

“Can’t see them if you stand straighter,” Solomon suggested, so James quickly stood at attention, looking directly forward. “There,” Solomon laughed, then, caught up in the mischief of being somewhere they shouldn’t be, gave a great sweeping bow, in a graceless pantomime of a gentleman at a ball. “ _M’lady_.”

He got it all wrong of course, bending much too low and making some ridiculous twirling motion with his left hand, but James laughed too, and did his best to curtsey.

“ _My good sir_ ,” he returned, holding his hand out - for what, he didn’t know, only that he’d seen it done at parties. 

Solomon took it, still half-bowed, and apparently didn’t know what to do either. He looked up at James with his warm brown eyes, clutching his fingers and raising his eyebrows, “wish I knew how to dance.”

* * *

James awakes to the most dreadful racket - a volley of successive bangs, sharp and short - and for a horrid frozen moment is reminded of gunshots before he realises it must be a hammer - _several_ hammers, pummelling away at the walls of his house. _Solomon_ , he thinks; he’d forgotten all about the work starting today. Pulling the bedclothes back from his face he winces as his head throbs sickly. His mouth is dry and foul tasting, he has sleep in his eyes and everything reeks of cigarettes. 

The hammering is relentless, echoing up the brickwork and out across the driveway. He checks his bedside clock to find that it is already half past nine. He is just about to stagger to the window and peer through the chink in the curtains when he hears a thud in the room next door. It appears Dundy has also been distrubed.

With mounting horror, James hears the window next to his fly open, and an incorrigibly sprightly voice cry out,

“I say! I say you sir!”

“I beg your pardon?” The voice from the ground is Tozer’s. James considers ducking back beneath the covers.

“Yes indeed! Look here, I’m sure you are a very fine fellow, but would you mind awfully piping down? I’ve a monstrous hangover!”

“Excuse me, sir.”

James rushes to the window, swallowing all pride, and throws the pane open. The sunlight is like knives in his retinas, his stomach heaves, but he manages to lean out, “Dundy!” he says, hoarsely.

“Ah Jim! Good morning!” Dundy gives him a cheery wave, leaning halfway out of the sash window to see him.

“Good morning,” he clears his throat, then looks down at Solomon, standing with his hat in his hand on the gravel two floors below. 

The driveway is alive with activity; ten or fifteen men at work carrying ladders and wooden beams, propping up scaffolding and hammering in nails. 

“I was just having a word with this chap here about the racket--”

“Dundy, go inside, would you? I’ll have Bridgens put on some coffee.”

“Jolly good!” And with that vanishes back into his own room like a meerkat.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Solomon says, looking between the two windows, clearly confused. 

“No, no,” James shakes his head, pain flaring up his neck as he does, trying to smile but certain it must look more like a grimace, “carry on, by all means.”

Solomon nods, his brow still furrowed, but perhaps that’s just the brightness of the day. James quickly withdraws, closing the window and holding his head in his hands. Is it a catastrophe? He can’t tell yet. He looks for his cigarettes, finding the very last one in a packet under his bed.

Bridgens once again proves his saviour, laying out a spectacular breakfast of eggs, bacon, and two Bloody Marys with lashings of worcester sauce. By eleven o’clock James feels half human again and the noise outside has taken on the satisfying thrum of industry. He is improving the house; he is making it his own. 

“What an undertaking,” Dundy comments, peering out of the windows in the study to watch the men erecting the scaffolding.

“Yes, twelve frames to be replaced - I went to Market Drayton for the marble.”

“I say.”

“Father had them patched over with a cement render, but that’s the wrong thing, you see - marble needs to breathe.”

“Goodness, you’ve become quite the architect. Perhaps you could take up design, if fashion no longer appeals?”

“I’ve enough to be getting on with, anyway.”

They bathe and then waste the rest of their morning reading the papers, Dundy penning a quick letter to his darling Natasha. “I’ll drop it at the post office on my way home,” he affirms.

“It will arrive in London weeks after you do,” James comments dryly.

“What are we to do today then?” Dundy stretches, folding his envelope sharply between his fingers. “Before the evening sets in and we crack open the brandy I brought.”

“Good Lord, I don’t think I could manage a second night of excess.” James cringes,

"Oh, come on, we'd have drunk twice that at Cambridge without missing a lecture."

"I know it - do you think our younger selves would be awfully disappointed in us?"

“I try not to think about that most of the time.”

James grunts in amused agreement. 

They eventually resolve to take a turn about the grounds, and by the time they’ve both decided which shoes are most suitable for the venture the work outside seems to have finished, and silence reigns over the house once more. James is putting his boots on at the back step, waiting for Dundy when Solomon finally reappears, approaching cautiously, looking about himself as if he might be accosted from another window. He has been working hard, his shirt is damp at the collar and under the arms, his flat cap pulled low over his eyes to keep out the sun.

“Afternoon,” he says.

“Good afternoon,” James straightens up.

“Just wanted to tell you I’ve sent the lads home - we’ll be back Monday, as I said. Start bringing up the marble.”

“Wonderful,” James nods, at a bit of a loss. “Thank you.”

Solomon returns the nod, eyes wandering to the darkened kitchen behind James, “I was sorry to disturb you this morning. I hadn’t thought you might have company.”

“Ah - no harm done, it was only Dundy, after all.”

A queer expression crosses Tozer’s face which James can’t read. It isn’t often that he can’t discern Solomon’s mood at a glance, he is usually so open. 

“Here I come, Jim, my apologies!” The man himself comes trotting through the kitchen to join them in the sunlight, “I decided brogues - what do you think?” He points his toes like a chorus girl.

“Very nice,” James agrees. “Dundy - ah - may I introduce Solomon Tozer?”

“Oh!” Dundy looks up, as if he hadn’t even noticed the other man’s presence, “the builder I squawked at this morning - please accept my apologies, I’m not myself at the crack of dawn,” he extends a long slim hand to shake Tozer’s large rough one.

“Stone mason,” Tozer corrects him, accepting the handshake, “pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Tozer, this is Henry Le Vesconte - Dundy. A chum of mine from Cambridge.”

“I see.”

“Stone mason! I say, you must be the one teaching Jim here all about marble and whatnot.”

Solomon gives James a look, and James laughs, though there’s nothing funny, “that’s right - this is the man responsible for carving out every one of my windows - single handed.”

“Only twelve of them,” Solomon mutters, shifting on his feet. 

“Marvellous, I call it,” Dundy says, “quite a skill.” 

They are on the very edge of being patronising, James is quite aware, and adds, “of course, that isn’t his only talent; Tozer here is a splendid craftsman, you ought to see his sculptures, I’ll bet you he can carve any animal you could name.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t,” Solomon says.

James realises he has misstepped again and hastens to correct the error, "he is also my oldest friend."

Surprise now lights Tozer's features, he tips his head back and the corners of his lips twitch.

"Oh, indeed!" Dundy exclaims, catching on, "well, I am very pleased to meet you."

At just that moment another young man appears - this time one of the gardeners, Mr Peglar, coming through the gate from the kitchen garden. Tozer touches his hat at him, “afternoon, Harry.”

“Oh, hello Sol,” he says, “fine job on that scaffolding.”

“We’ll need you Monday, if you’re fit.”

“Right-o.”

Peglar turns to James and Dundy and his manner changes instantly, his smile flattening out beneath his beard, “Lord Gambier, sir, I brought the key you wanted.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavy iron key.

James reaches to take it, “key?”

“Yes - to the summerhouse, sir. John - that is, Mr Bridgens, he said you’d asked for it.”

“Oh!” James feels an uncomfortable prickling on his neck, aware that Solomon is watching him even more intently than before. Of course; he said they would go together. “Yes, thank you,” he says to Peglar, then more generally, “I don’t think I’ll go today though - perhaps in the week.”

“No, let’s see it,” Dundy slaps him on the back, “I wager it’ll be cooler down by the lake.”

“I’ll be off, then,” Tozer says, finally, and James feels sick about it.

“No, don’t - you’d better come and see it too.” He’ll explain to Dundy later, when everybody isn’t watching him. 

“I won’t intrude on your afternoon with your friend,” Solomon shakes his head.

“You won’t be!” Dundy puts in cheerily, “I’ve been talking Jim’s ear off all night, do him good to hear some sensible conversation for a spell. Is it this way?” And off he goes, marching across the lawn downhill towards the lake.

Solomon is clearly torn, but in the end seems unable to think of anything that will excuse him, and so follows on. The three of them make steady progress, James hoping he can grab Dundy and take him aside to explain the situation he has put them all in, Dundy talking nineteen to the dozen while Tozer frowns, trying to follow. 

“Are you local, Tozer?”

“I live in the village.”

“How divine! It is just the green and pleasant land Blake described, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’ve heard so much about the Shropshire Hills, but nothing really does them justice, you know - I confess, I’m quite taken with the place.”

“We’ve some very fine views.”

“That you have, my good man!” Dundy agrees enthusiastically, as if Tozer has said something highly amusing and to the point. 

By the time they have reached the end of the avenue of box hedges James cannot help being rather put out by the short answers Solomon is giving, and the churlish way he behaves around Dundy. It makes him come off simpler than he is; he seems reticent, uninterested, when really he is always thinking - Solomon has thoughts on everything, if you know how to pry them out of him. More importantly, they are thoughts worth listening to, so honestly and carefully have they been constructed. James is not sure why he needs Dundy to know these things, but it bothers him nonetheless.

Dundy has never passed any comment on James' paramours, agreeable chap that he is. In fact the pair of them are generally polite observers when it comes to each others’ personal affairs, celebrating and commiserating, but never offering advice or judgement. Still, James is quite certain that Dundy does have opinions, and by that token must also have prejudices. 

James ponders this for so long that he falls behind Dundy and Solomon, having to jog to catch them up as they reach the thicket of trees which surround the lake. As he does, he hears Dundy still prattling merrily away,

“...the thing about the ballet company is that they’re all kept on an awfully short tether, you see - the dancers are hardly ever let out for any fun lest they injure themselves and ruin the next night’s performance. So when my darling Natasha caught wind that I could smuggle her out to a party or two and show her a bit of London she fairly leapt at the chance - not literally of course, though you ought to _see_ her leap, it’s truly thrilling…”

“I can imagine,” Solomon replies, the hint of a smile in his tone almost enough to set James’ mind at ease. 

“Of course I have rather opened a tin of worms now, and she expects to be taken out three or four times a week for a good time, which -- oh, Jim! Is this it? It’s perfectly idyllic!” 

The path to the summerhouse has been kept nicely, and the lake is just as tranquil and inviting as it ever was on a hot day. The water is vast and shining, reeds standing upright like spears in the shallows and a family of little black coots bobbing amongst the rushes. There is a paved patio which leads to the entrance of the summerhouse, and a garden of foxgloves, roses and delphiniums. 

The house itself looks rather smaller than James recalls. It is still a very sweet little cottage made of wood and painted green, with white window panes and stained glass over the door - only the paint is peeling all over, and thick strangling vines seem to have claimed most of the front so that James has to delve deep into the greenery to find the key hole and unlock the door. 

Leaving Dundy pontificating on the merits of freshwater swimming versus swimming in the sea to a bemused Tozer, James shoves against the door with his shoulder and pushes his way in. 

He didn't know what he expected, but he finds himself disappointed anyway. It was always a small, forgotten corner, that was what he liked about it - there was only one room, with a WC in the back and a little stove for cooking. The furniture has been cleared out, which makes the space appear less intimate than before. It is cool and quiet, and the light is very thin. 

It doesn’t feel at all like the place he remembers so fondly; his perspective is off kilter, the air seems to fill the room differently. He recognises elements - the black and white tile floor, the walls painted with boating scenes, now as pale as chalk. The invading ivy has grown over the windows, turning everything dim green, and the vine has even broken one of the little stained glass diamonds above the door and begun to stretch across the ceiling. There is a dead bird in the cinders of the fireplace, a hive of bees buzzing somewhere in the empty rafters, and he hears mice scrabbling between the walls.

James stares, his skin prickling beneath his linen shirt. This is the place he loved the most, and yet it is the place which feels the most changed. It is the only part of the grounds left unpreserved and unremembered; allowed to grow over and vanish back into the estate as if it had never been there at all. The bitter taste of rage rises in his throat and he swallows hard.

“‘Cor,” the door grinds open further and Solomon pokes his head in, peering about, “like that tomb they found in Egypt, isn’t it?”

“No treasure though,” James replies, looking past Tozer into the bright sunlight. 

There on the patio he and Solomon had sat side by side drying off in the sun, had raced each other to the water’s edge, had played and laughed and shared secrets and boasted about futures they would never achieve. 

"Funny being back," Solomon steps inside, his heavy boots scuffing up the curling dried leaves which litter the tile floor, eyeing the faded murals on the plaster walls. 

"It’s so changed," James says, a little wistfully.

"Change is a sign of life," Solomon puts in reliably. "You could get it back to how it was, with enough effort."

“I say!” Dundy cries outside, still by the lake, “a heron! Good day, monsieur!”

Tozer chuckles, shaking his head. "He's an interesting fellow."

"He's a dear," James says warmly. 

"Seems very taken with this ballerina of his, I hope she's as fond of him."

“He’s a romantic soul, but he usually bounces back all right.” James looks around himself again, trying not to sigh. 

"Don't mope," Solomon says with a tut, "the place is still standing, isn’t it? None of the furniture was comfortable and you never liked the paintings anyway, you said they were _derivative_."

"Did I really say things like that?" James cringed, wondering if he would ever get over the embarrassment of having been a child.

"You had me dazzled," Solomon laughs. "Your words."

“Oh, be quiet.”

Another memory fizzes to the surface of James’ mind - an obscene one, of the first time James laid his hands on Solomon, groping over his trousers. Solomon had yelped, choking on his wine,

“James - you can’t really mean to--” 

“I do,” he returned, bold with drink and probably slobbering all over Solomon’s neck, “will you let me?”

“All right, but here, let me--” Solomon unbuckled his trousers so quickly it was very difficult for James to believe he was truly shocked by the proposition. 

Back in the empty, dusty present, James realises his face has grown hot, and looks up to find that Solomon is watching the same spot on the front step. They catch each other's eye and grin, looking away again.

"Reckon we were remembering the same night," Solomon says.

"I'm surprised we remember anything, we were so drunk."

“Nah,” Solomon shakes his head, “we only thought we were.”

James finally looks at him properly, meeting his eyes. Solomon is not disappointed, he realises; no illusions have been shattered for him. “I’m sorry about Dundy,” he says, honestly, “he came to surprise me - I didn’t mean for us all to end up here.”

“Don’t think on it,” Solomon shrugs, “I’ve no claim on your time.”

"He'll be gone by Monday."

"Then I expect I shall see you Monday evening," Tozer grins, stepping closer, "you'll come down to the village?"

"If you like." James smiles.

* * *

"So, that was your boy from the greenwood, then? I say, I like him very much, though he's not at all as I imagined." Dundy announces when he and James are making their way back up to the house. Tozer went his own way back to the village once the summerhouse had been locked up again.

"How did you imagine him?" James asks.

"Oh, I don't know. Waifish, I suppose, some ethereal youth from the hills."

"Girlish, do you mean?"

"You know very well that I don't.” Dundy scowls, “...I simply never pictured you with a tough."

"Well we can't all love ballerinas."

"Thank heavens."

"Besides, he's not a _tough_. He's an artist, I told you, a sculptor."

"Is he really as good as you say?"

"Better. He only needs the money for bronze, I've been hoping to assist in some way but… well he's awfully proud."

“Hm,” Dundy murmurs, apparently deep in thought. He stops a moment to turn and look downhill, admiring the view. “So it isn’t all as dire as you say out here, then?”

“Pardon?”

“Your stone mason - Tozer. Forgive a man for being presumptuous, but it was rather plain. Some things are worth coming home for, eh?”

“Solomon? You make it sound like some great romance.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Oh, we were always easy company. But I don’t think he has ever… that is to say, he’s not the sort to make grand declarations. Or receive them.”

“Nor are you,” Dundy nudges him with his toe, “you only pretend to be.” 

“Ha.” James looks back too, down at the lake where the water catches the thick afternoon sunshine like sheet metal, “all I mean is that we lead our own lives - we’re really friends more than lovers.”

“But you _are_ lovers…?”

“Out of habit,” James waves a hand vaguely, “we know each other awfully well, things are very simple. There's no fussing around the matter and I'm sure we both prefer it that way.”

“I think I see,” Dundy replies, looking quietly pensieve, “I say, it sounds jolly nice to me, but then I’ve always thought I'd be pleased to settle with ‘very simple’."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt: "A Country Life" by Katherine Philips.
> 
> Coming soon: A BIRTHDAY PARTY - FANCY DRESS - ASPIC
> 
> Thank you so much for reading :)


	4. A party (part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever so slightly late, and truncated - this chapter ended up running away with me a bit, as parties tend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humble thanks now and forever to kt_fairy, for proof reading and costume design.

_ Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day _

_ And dances by false glare at night; _

_ But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves _

_ To spread its wings in Nature's light. _

The trouble with toffs, Solomon thinks to himself as he prepares to leave his workshop for the evening, is that you can’t refuse them anything without coming over simple-minded. They’ve no view of the boundaries or the pitfalls ordinary men see; for them the world is all horizon, and they expect that it must be so for everybody. 

Tozer is as proud and stubborn a man as any, and even he couldn’t find a way to say ‘no’ to Mr Le Vesconte: not to the proposition, which is a generous one, nor the invitation, which had to be accepted as a matter of course after the initial agreement was struck. (He did insist that Le Vesconte square it with Fitzjames, at any rate, it being his birthday party. Tozer knows very well that there are rules about invitations amongst that set - ‘oldest friend’ or not, Solomon won’t be caught out where he isn’t wanted.)

He wonders whether all of Fitzjames’ friends are as uncommon as Mr Le Vesconte. If so, then he thinks he’ll need a strong drink before sitting down to supper with them. On the other hand, Fitzjames himself has always been an odd sort, with high-souled ambitions and unexpected fancies - differences small and large which have always been part of his charm. That kind of queerness is nothing when you are a child, and easy to grow accustomed to, but harder to swallow as a grown man who is as set in his ways as Solomon knows he is.

He glances up and down the street as he locks up his shop, sliding the heavy iron key into his back pocket. It’s an ordinary Saturday evening in Culswen, made a little finer by the glorious warm summer which shows no sign of flagging yet. The sun hangs heavy in the cloudless sky, most of the villagers have set down their labours and the air is quiet and golden. 

It is a gift of an evening; meant to be spent amongst friends. Solomon looks longingly at The Ship as he passes, wishing there was time for a pint to fortify himself before making his ascent to the big house. There isn’t; Lydia kept him so long fussing over the fraying hem of his left trouser leg that he will have to walk quickly to arrive on time.

He won the battle over the trousers - quickly mended with a few neat stitches - and avoided ending up in David Bryant’s nearly new black wool breeches. Solomon’s own Sunday jacket and waistcoat passed muster, but his shoes had been a matter of great contention.

“What will Lord Gambier think of you?" Lydia worried, on her knees scrubbing at the toes with boot polish.

“That I’m a working man who wears working boots,” Solomon replied, annoyed. Fitzjames has never commented on his clothes before, and the idea that he might on this particular evening unsettles him. 

There was nothing to be done about the shoes in the end; no one in the family had a pair that was even nearly new. Nevertheless, after a bath and a comb through his hair Solomon reckons he looks tidy enough, and Mr Le Vesconte did say that Fitzjames’ friends were an ‘easygoing bunch’.

“Whatever that means, coming from him,” Lydia rolled her eyes, in an uncanny impression of their mother which made Tozer grin. “Queer duck, that one.”

Mr Le Vesconte had caused quite the sensation in Culswen some Sundays ago when he stopped in on his way back to London. His motorcar - a butter yellow Rolls Royce - had attracted the entire village’s attention, growling up the main thoroughfare on what was usually a peaceful day. Solomon had been at Lydia’s, spending a pleasant afternoon on the hearth rug playing with the little ones and looking forward to dozing off in his usual armchair after the family roast when the noise disrupted the household.

Bryant went outside first, and Tozer followed, still holding Davy by the ankles.

“Have a look,” Bryant smirked, “that your Lord Gambier?”

“Not his car,” Solomon shook his head, frowning as he flipped his squirming nephew about and settled him on his hip. Curtains were already twitching and front doors opening up and down the street, the suspicious inhabitants peering warily out. 

Engine purring, the car pulled up outside Tozer’s workshop, and Solomon felt a heavy sense of unease settle on his shoulders when the slim man in the tweed suit stepped out, pushing his goggles back from his face and grinning at the villagers, waving his straw boater jovially. 

“Good afternoon!” He called out, “I say, is Mr Tozer anywhere about?”

“Bugger.” Tozer sighed, handing Bryant his son and hurrying up the road to meet the gentleman. He dared not look back, or meet anyone’s eye as he did.

“Ah! There you are, my good man!” Le Vesconte sang out when he saw him approach without a care for who heard. “I’ve a proposal for you! Time for a  _ tête-à-tête _ ?”

Solomon managed to herd him into the workshop before the whole village knew his business, already aware that an explanation would be owing come Monday morning. 

It was in aid of Fitzjames’ upcoming birthday, of all things. Mr Le Vesconte had a very lavish gift in mind, and wanted Tozer’s help with it. 

"Look here, you know him well,” he’d chirped, wandering about the workshop picking up this and that like an inquisitive blackbird, “I'm sure you know as well as I do that he is terribly green to find himself manning the old family pile. The thing is to make it his  _ own _ \- a man ought to put his mark on a place, don’t you agree?"

“I… certainly, Mr Le Vesconte.”

“--Henry, please. Or Dundy, if you like.”

Solomon wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about anything Le Vesconte said or did, though Fitzjames thought a lot of him, and Tozer felt that his friendliness was genuine, rather than piled on for the sake of their unequal stations.

“How can I help, sir? Henry, I mean.”

“Why, I want you to design it for me, of course! What’s more I’d like you to make it - but we’ll get to that. I hear bronze is the thing?”

“Design… are you sure?”

“Quite sure - Jim knows his art better than I do, and he speaks very highly of your work.”

Solomon protested as politely as he could, but each problem was met with an immediate solution. He had no proper experience in bronze, no access to a foundry - Le Vesconte would pay a foundry in Shrewsbury to take care of it. He had no materials, the wrong tools - Le Vesconte promised to outfit him.

“I’ll take care of everything - pay for whatever else you need, as well as the work itself, of course.”

“It will be very expensive, I couldn’t ask--”

Mr Le Vesconte flapped his hands. “Awfully embarrassing, but I really do have a ridiculous amount of money, and no one to spend it on but my dearest friends,” he sighed, as though this was his greatest burden. “It’s true I’ll have no need for any of it once the work is finished, but I thought I might sell it on to you to do what you like with. At a cut rate, of course, as it will all be used by then.”

“But…”

“Really, what would I do with a sculptor's tools? The very idea!” He laughed gaily, as though they were sharing the joke.

What else could Tozer do but agree? After he’d been paid for the windows and with the money for this statue he may well have enough to buy all the equipment, and he’d had a fierce ambition to see his work in bronze for years now - since long before the war. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the way it all seemed to fit together, though; too good to be true.

“Did Fitzjames put you up to this?” He asked when he had run out of objections.

“I should think not! I want it all to be a surprise - you are not to say a word to him, do you hear?”

“I suppose…”

It was a difficult situation, though Bryant and Lydia insisted he was the one being difficult. “I dunno what you’ve done to have all these toffs tripping over themselves for you, Sol,” Bryant shook his head, “but I’d bleed ‘em dry if I were you.”

He had a point, however bluntly made. Tozer ought to be grateful for the work, what with Rhoda’s wedding coming up and Jude and Isaac’s upkeep. All the big jobs were in Shrewsbury and Newport these days; he’d been scraping by on gravestones and odd jobs for months. 

Lydia put a thoughtful spin on things, as always, “Mum used to say you were the clever one,” she reasoned, “and Mr Weekes said you were a fast learner - you’ll pick up this bronze caper quick as you please. Maybe you could make up some of those little toys you whittle for the kids, Daisy loves her pony.”

“No one round here wants bronze statues,” Bryant grunted.

“That’s not Sol’s fault, is it,” Lydia gave him a sharp look, “maybe he doesn’t want to stay here all his life.”

Bryant didn’t answer that, only raised his hands in defeat as he always did when the Tozer-Jakes family closed ranks, and went out to smoke his pipe on the back step.

“Maybe I do want to stay here,” Solomon said, resenting the fuss on his behalf. “Wouldn’t leave you with all the kids.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” his sister shook her head, “but I don’t like to see you wasted - Jude hasn’t much more school left and she’ll bolt as soon as the gate’s open. Isaac is such a fool I think I shall have to send him off to Abigail and see if they can stick him somewhere in the licorice factory. We'll all manage all right, you ought to please yourself, Sol, you’ve done plenty already.”

He didn’t reply, because she was only trying to be kind, but he knew what his responsibilities were. In the grim winter of 1916 when Solomon had crawled out of his stinking tunnel gasping for air and light, he had received news that Samuel and Joshua were lost, and since then he’d understood that nothing he ever did would be enough to make it right again.

And while it is true that times are changing, and most of his sisters have either found good husbands or are working themselves - Rhoda surprised them all when she landed the teaching job in the village school, Becky is a secretary now in a Shrewsbury bank, and Jess found factory work in Ironbridge - those are still women’s wages; barely enough to share between a growing family. 

So perhaps bronze is the thing, Solomon muses as he sets off out of the village; a roll of paper under one arm and a bag of sherbet sweets in his coat pocket. Mr Weekes once told him that nothing was more permanent than stone, but it seemed that nobody could control progress. You have to keep up with the times, that’s what parliament keeps telling the miners. 

“Evening, Mr Tozer,” someone calls out to him when he is almost at the ford, so that he has to turn back, squinting in the sunlight to see who it is. 

“Good evening, Mr Hickey,” he replies, catching sight of the short, slight man loitering outside the pub, rolling a fag as usual. 

Cornelius Hickey, a blow in who arrived out of nowhere some weeks ago has been staying in The Ship. Tozer took him on to help with the windows as a favour to Gibson, who was worried he’d get no rent otherwise. Solomon can’t say that Hickey has been a great deal of help, or even that grateful for the opportunity, but he always has a grin and a clever word to say.

“Fine afternoon for a walk.”

“Suppose it is,” Tozer glances about, disinterested. Hickey wants to know his business, and he’ll have to find out from someone else.

“Not stopping in?” Hickey jerks his head at the pub behind him. He can be found in the corner table every night now, and Armitage has taken a liking to him - Manson and Pilkington too. He’s that sort of bloke, friendly with everyone, quick to ingratiate himself, which Solomon suspects is a useful trait for someone without a fixed abode. 

“Not tonight,” he shakes his head, turning again to carry on his way. As he does, Hickey gives out a low whistle, forcing Solomon to turn again to see what he’d about. He tilts his head girlishly, raising his cigarette to his lips, jutting out his pointed little chin.

“Shoes have scrubbed up nicely, Mr Tozer. Anyone would think you’re off courting.”

Solomon laughs gruffly, as if that is a fine joke, then turns back, walking quickly away. 

It means nothing - after all if Lydia knows where he is going then so will the rest of the village, and why should he not accept an invitation to a birthday supper? He has known Fitzjames since they were children, and that is no secret either; never has been. Solomon is sure he cannot be found in the wrong here. Still, there is an uncomfortable itch in the back of his head as he crosses the stream and begins uphill, as if Hickey's pale eyes are following him.

There are more lights on than usual at Cadwallen Hoo, Tozer can just make them out through the windows - which have all been cleaned and buffed for the occasion. The new marble frames stand out brilliant white in the yellow stucco facade, as though the house has opened its eyes after a long slumber. Mr Le Vesconte’s Rolls Royce is parked on the gravel driveway - something the old Lord Gambier would never have allowed - and two other motorcars have joined it. 

They used to hold balls at Cadwallen Hoo when Her Ladyship was still alive, Tozer remembers his mother working for days to prepare feasts, the kitchen pumping out steam long into the night, golden light from the ballroom spilling out across the darkened lawn, the sound of the music drifting down the hillside like a fog. Fairyland. Of course he was never invited, that sort of evening wasn’t for village folk. He’d never felt hard done by it, not the way Fitzjames complained.

“ _ She _ chooses all of my clothes,” he muttered bitterly one afternoon when they were sixteen or so, “I’m not allowed to drink, and I’m not allowed to talk to anyone - unless they are introduced, and she only ever introduces me to  _ girls _ .”

They were lounging in the little false meadow in front of the ice house with pencils and paper, trying to sketch the landscape. Tozer was concentrating hard, but Fitzjames had been talking the entire time.

“You’ll be having meringue, though - and duck,” Solomon raised his pencil and rubbed his chin thoughtfully - he was certain his whiskers would be coming in soon, and kept checking for rough patches. 

“The food is always excellent, you’re quite right,” James replied. “Though of course  _ Miss Hortensia Mimsey-Smythe _ or whoever they plonk me next to will be watching her figure, so I shall feel guilty about every mouthful.”

“Oh,  _ poor little lord _ ,” Solomon yawned, then gave him a hard shove with his elbow, so that James lost control of his own pencil and drew a great black lightning bolt across the paper. “A night of eating sweets and talking to pretty girls, however will you manage?”

Fitzjames scrunched up the drawing and threw it at Solomon’s head, “beastly boy,” he grumbled, “I should have you run off the estate."

Receiving only mocking laughter in return, Fitzjames made to give him a good hard shove back, but Solomon saw it coming, grabbed his wrist and kissed his hand. 

“Go on then, and who will listen to your griping, eh?”

Fitzjames softened, and gave his head a gentle push instead, his fingers stretching out to stroke through Solomon’s hair. “Very well, you are forgiven.” 

They kissed often, even then - Solomon remembers it suddenly. Sometimes it felt as though there had never been a beginning to it at all. At sixteen it was all innocent enough; pecks on the cheek, sitting closer than they really needed to. Nothing  more involved \- though Solomon had thought about it.

Placated, Fitzjames had sighed and laid down on his back, squinting furiously at the sky. “You laugh at me, but why should I go on pretending to like women when I do not? It’s too ridiculous.”

“Don’t see why you do have to pretend,” Solomon replied, packing away his pencils into his tin, for it was clear that the drawing lesson was over. “Just be civil.”

“Easy enough for you to say, no one forces you into these things.”

Solomon snorted as he rolled over onto his back too. “You don’t know what the harvest festival is like after everyone’s had a few.”

“Oh?” James shifted, turning his head, “what is it like?”

“Just a laugh. Everyone looking to pair off.”

“And do you?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, as though there was a stone in his back or he’d laid on a thistle, he shifted, “do what?”

“ _ You _ know.”

“Piss off.” 

This was how Solomon usually ended a conversation at that age, and Fitzjames accepted it without fuss - perhaps he didn’t want to hear the answer. 

“I still don’t want to go,” he groaned miserably, rubbing his eyes, “I’d just as soon be by myself upstairs with a book. Or out in the woods with you.”

“I shan’t be in the woods,” Solomon told him, “I shall be at home with my sisters, so you can complain all you like about girls, but you don’t know how I suffer.”

When he finally crests the hill Solomon goes around the back to use the kitchen entrance. 

It’s well after working hours, so he’s surprised to see the familiar shape of Harry Peglar leaning in the open door frame, talking to Mr Bridgens who is setting out glasses on a big silver tray. They’re both laughing at something, and Peglar almost jumps when he hears Solomon treading up the gravel path. Tozer supposes he must still have work to finish, and doesn’t want to be seen slacking. 

He knows Peglar to say hello to, but they’ve never been mates; he’s a quiet sort who keeps himself to himself, and Solomon didn’t expect to see him so pally with the butler.

“Evening,” he touches his hat and smiles to show that he doesn’t mind what Peglar gets up to.

“Evening, Sol, what are you doing here?” Peglar straightens and fixes his own cap back on his head.

“Mr Tozer is Lord Gambier’s guest,” Bridgens explains from the sink. Solomon hates the way that sounds, but he nods and greets the valet next, leaning into the shadowed kitchen.

“Fancy that,” Peglar gives Solomon a strange look. 

“You may go directly to Lord Gambier’s room, Mr Tozer,” Bridgens says, calm as you like, “supper has been moved back an hour - the guests are still getting dressed. Lord Gambier said I was to send you up rather than keep you waiting in the parlour.”

“Thank you,” Solomon steps into the kitchen. He holds up his roll of paper, “is Mr Le Vesconte here? I have this to give him.”

“I’ll take it to him,” Bridgens nods at a free spot on the big oak table, where Solomon can remember his mother working; kneading dough or preparing enormous trays of food for the gigantic ovens. 

“Thank you,” still Solomon lingers, taking in the old familiar room; the copper kettles and pans hanging over the fireplace, the dark cabinets full of fancy contraptions and fine china. This afternoon has clearly been a busy one; the kitchen is blazing hot, there are all kinds of dishes laid out on the table, covered over with clean white cloth to keep flies away. All of the silverware and crystal is out, gleaming like treasure. Peglar continues watching Tozer curiously from the door, arms folded, which makes him feel he ought not to have come inside without a proper invitation.

“Do you know the way?” Bridgens looks up again.

“...I don’t.”

“Down the corridor, through the green door, then up the main staircase - two flights - turn left at the top, it’s the fourth door on the right.”

Solomon blinks. “Thank you.” He pauses again, looking at the silver, then down at his shoes. Perhaps Lydia was right - they’re very badly scuffed at the heel. “Mr Bridgens, sir?”

“Just Bridgens, please.”

“Will I do?”

“What’s that?” He looks up again, and Peglar smiles, looking away. 

Solomon holds his arms out helplessly. “It’s my Sunday suit, but it might not be the right thing.”

Bridgens gives him a kind smile, and Tozer feels foolish all over again, “you’re very smart, Mr Tozer. This evening isn’t formal, I shouldn’t worry.”

“All right,” Solomon nods, steeling himself. He makes to turn when Bridgens calls out again,

“That’s the fourth door on the right, mind you - third door and you’ll bump into Mr Le Vesconte.”

“Thank you,” Solomon grins, before heading on his way.

He has been this far before - through the servants’ corridors with Fitzjames, and on one or two Empire Days when the house was opened up to the village. Pushing through the door and into the house he still feels like the cook’s son, and almost puts his hands in his pockets to resist touching anything. He climbs the stairs quickly, they creak and groan beneath his feet, and on his way he passes huge paintings in golden frames, tall mahogany grandfather clocks which tick out of time. He crosses long chinese rugs with intricate designs woven in, and gazes in fascination at the shifting patterns of the wallpaper. There’s too much of everything, and yet somehow not enough to be comfortable. In short, it’s exactly what he expected.

On the second floor corridor he turns left as instructed and then counts the doors twice to make sure he gets the right one. He can hear faint music coming from the third door, and there is a smell of perfume and expensive cigarette smoke pervading the entire hall. Swallowing hard, Tozer knocks on the fourth door.

“Dundy?” Fitzjames calls from inside. Relieved, Solomon pushes it open a crack,

“Just me.”

“Solomon!” Fitzjames is sitting on the bed - smoking again, the ashtray resting on the pillow. He’s halfway through dressing, by the looks of things; his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned, Solomon can see the piping on his vest as he stands and comes over to greet him.

Nodding his head in greeting, Solomon enters the room and closes the door behind him. It’s a kind of achievement, to find himself inside Fitzjames’ bedchamber at long last.

“Keep waiting for someone to chase me out,” he says, looking around, pulling his hat off. 

It’s a very fine bedroom of course, and very large - almost the size of Solomon’s workshop. There is a Chinese dressing screen, a towering wardrobe and matching chest of drawers with a standing mirror between them. He can see the top of another doorframe behind the screen, and guesses it must be the bathroom. There had been pictures on the wall until recently, Solomon spies the dark rectangular shapes in the green silk wallpaper, but they’ve been taken down. The bed has been altered too - there are four posts and a frame, but no hangings. Perhaps they’ve been taken down to clean, or it is too hot in the summer. 

“I’m so pleased you came,” James smiles. His cheeks are a bit flushed already, and his eyes bright. There’s a large green bottle on the chest of drawers, gold foil ripped away and the cork rolling beside it. 

“Well, I was invited,” Solomon shrugs, finding himself curiously bashful. “Mr Bridgens said I ought to come straight up - he said you told him so.”

“I did indeed,” James nods, going to the bedside table and pouring out two glasses of fizzing stuff from the green bottle. “Here, champagne,” he hands one over. “Dundy brought enough to float the navy.”

Solomon drinks, tentatively, and tries not to sneeze. It’s a little like wine, which he occasionally had in France, so at least he knows where he stands. 

“My guests are all frightfully impolite swine and arrived late,” Fitzjames explains, “and they always take so long over dressing that dinner might be hours away yet - so I thought I’d like you to myself for a moment.”

He says this all very quickly, in a careless tone Solomon isn’t used to hearing, waving his hand about in a natty sort of way, trailing smoke about the room. He’ll have to drink a bit to catch up, he realises. 

“Happy birthday,” he raises his glass.

“Oh, thank you,” Fitzjames grins loosely, and raises his own drink, gulping it down as if it’s water, “though it’s not until Monday, really.”

“No, I know. Lydia and her husband send you many happy returns as well.”

“How kind.”

Solomon sets down his glass on the dresser, and then puts his hat down beside it, thinking how odd the two objects look together. The tall wide windows catch his eye next, and he cannot help going to see.

The slate roofs of Culswen all look very small from up on the hill, fields of yellow and green stretch out around them and the dense treetops at the foot of the valley by the river look like mounds of velvety dark moss. The heavy sun has cracked like a great golden yolk, drenching the hills in rich amber light and setting the sky afire with blazing streaks of gold, rose pink and silver.

“So this is how the other half live, eh?” He whistles. “Never saw the village looking like that before.”

“It is nice, isn’t it?” James puts out his cigarette and comes to join him.

“Must be the best view in the county,” he means it honestly, but he must sound very naïve, because Fitzjames laughs lightly, leaning into him with his shoulder.

The radiant evening light glows on James’ skin, which has by now fully returned to its familiar deep summer tan. Solomon cannot help glancing again at his unbuttoned shirt, now he can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric.

“You would say that,” Fitzjames says. “I’m so glad you came - I always wondered what you'd think of it. The house, I mean."

"I think it is very grand."

"That is the only thing to be said for it, I suppose," James laughs again, ruefully this time. "Though I must say, it's something of a thrill having you up here, after all these years - when I think of all the creeping about we used to do."

"Thought you just liked it outside," Solomon grunts, half-joking.

"Of course the grounds have their charms," James raises an eyebrow in response, "feels awfully underhanded to be indoors together though, doesn't it? Flagrant."

Tozer catches his tone and feels a warm thrill begin to build in his middle, he steps back from the window to regard James. “Think about it often, do you?"

"Perhaps I do," he's being coy now, and Solomon knows him well enough to know what that portents. 

Their desire for each other is always present - much more than it was when they were younger. There is more mystery in it for both of them, Solomon reckons; a curiosity about the years they have spent apart which neither will speak aloud. James has been with others, clearly; he has picked up different tastes and tricks which he is eager to share and leave Solomon dazed and bewitched. 

He wonders sometimes if the joy of rediscovery is getting in the way of something else - if their appetite for each other is keeping them stalled on the brink of a genuine revelation. Whatever their friendship is now, it’s over Tozer’s head. He simply knows that he doesn’t think thoughts like this about anyone else.

Solomon himself hasn't had what you would call a constant lover for years. There was Alice Hartnell who he courted for a time, she was very fair and good natured. Lizzie Weekes - though that had all been more trouble than it was worth. A string of village girls, all of them very pretty, who have been pleasant and sweet to him. But they always want things in return; want to make him a husband, or to know things about him, to know his thoughts. He never knew what to say, and he couldn't settle into the idea of marriage. 

There were women when he was in the army too, impersonal encounters and unfulfilling exchanges driven by the imminence of death . Only one other man ever caught his eye, a soldier, but Solomon wouldn’t give room to that side of things, he couldn't afford to.

In the luminescence of the window Fitzjames is more strikingly handsome than usual, like a memory. He turns towards Solomon with that look in his eye which Solomon doesn’t know the right word for - it is like coming across him in the woods with a rifle; unrefined and spring-loaded.

Whatever it is, it draws Tozer taut with crimson desire. He reaches out to catch the untucked corner of James’s shirt and encourage him close enough to give him a proper greeting. Fitzjames makes a quiet, satisfied noise, as though he’s been waiting to be kissed, and grips Solomon’s arms, fitting himself against his body with loose abandon. 

When they pull apart James is still smiling his secretive smile, eyes bright and lips wet. 

"What are you after, then?" Solomon asks, squeezing his backside, arms around him. Fitzjames' eyes flicker again and he glances at the bed.

“Sit down and find out.”

Solomon is obliging. A tightness curls in his belly as he is half guided and half pushed back to sit on the bed with a hand pressed to his chest. He pulls James with him, hands on his hips, and reaches upwards for another kiss as they awkwardly topple together. James’ warm weight is satisfying, his mouth hot and full of promise. Feet still planted on the rug, Solomon sinks back into the dark red counterpain, the mattress sighing beneath him.

James sits up, shifts back and drops to his knees on the floorboards before Solomon, prising his legs further apart as he does.

"Have I told you how glad I am you're here?" He says, colour high in his cheeks as he unfastens the buckles on Solomon’s braces.

"Yes, twice," Solomon props himself up on his elbows to watch him.

"Once more can’t hurt," James grins, freeing Solomon's hard prick.

He ducks his head and Solomon lets out a shaking breath, his head dropping back between his shoulders as he reaches out to rest his hand on James’ shoulder, and every thought leaves his mind.

He settles into the languorous rhythm and pricking heat as James mouths him from base to tip. Looking down again he watches the lewd bobbing of James' head, the razor sharp parting in his dark hair, neatly slicked down with brilliantine, glossy in the fading glow of the afternoon.

Solomon’s thighs grow tense and scalding arousal tightens in his gut as James circles a hand around the root of his prick. The other hand James slips slowly and tauntingly between Solomon’s legs to press a fingertip against that tender, hidden place which makes Tozer's face flush with the brutal stab of pleasure, and he shamelessly arches his hips to wring the most out of every sensation. 

James hums, his tongue thrumming against the tender underside of Tozer’s prick, and his eyelids flutter open, meeting Solomon’s gaze. The wicked glee in his black eyes as he tightens his lips around Solomon’s cock sets Tozer’s nerves roaring, and when James swirls his sliding tongue even faster, hand pumping and curling his finger inside, Solomon finds himself panting raggedly and gripping desperately at his shoulder. It takes only a few moments more of this treatment to bring Solomon to crisis and he gasps with excruciating bliss as heat spills from him, his insides contract and he throbs into James' warm mouth.

His body is still ringing long after Fitzjames has released him. He slumps back, every muscle heavy and every joint loose, and blinks up at the ornate white plaster ceiling rose, cut off by the bedframe. There is a fine crack in it which would only take a few moments to mend. 

“Don't fall asleep,” his lover gives his thigh a sharp slap.

“Christ. You’d better let me have one of your fancy fags after that,” Solomon groans.

“Feeling indulgent?” James rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Solomon gives a huff of weak laughter, hauling himself up to button his trousers. 

James hands over his cigarette case, then goes to pour more champagne into Solomon’s glass, bringing it over to him.

"I'd better get dressed - here, have as much as you like,” he sets down the glass and the bottle, then disappears into the adjoining bathroom. Solomon hears the hiss of water running and takes another drink, wondering whether he is developing a taste for it or whether the fizzing in the glass only compliments the fizzing sensation in his veins as he recovers from James’ attentions. He stretches and rubs the back of his neck, looking at his surroundings with a new kind of clarity.

“Was this always your room?” He asks, eyeing the blank spots in the wallpaper again.

“Oh, no - I had a smaller one at the back of the house when I was a boy." James emerges from the bathroom, drying his hands, and next opens the doors of the large standing wardrobe which dominates the corner of the room opposite the bed. "This is - well, it’s not the master, but I suppose Bridgens decided it was more suitable. It gets good light.”

“And Mr Le Vesconte is next door?”

“Yes… I wasn’t sure what you preferred. Whether you’d be staying the night, that is.”

“Me? I’ll go home, like as not - won’t stay late.”

“As you please,” James replies, his tone a little harder.

“You’ll be having a fine time with all your friends,” Solomon offers. “Oi, you’ve not told me anything, who are they all? From Cambridge, or London?”

“A little of each… you’ll meet them at supper.”

“Are they all like Mr Le Vesconte?”

“I wish you’d call him Henry. In fact, you’d better call everyone by their first names - it will help, I promise.”

“Fine,” he agrees, hoping he will remember. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to wear a nicer suit,” he says to James’ back. His shirt has grown damp in places, clinging to his shoulder blades. “Lydia reckoned my shoes were probably wrong.”

“You’ll do very nicely,” James throws over his shoulder without turning around, “didn’t Dundy tell you? It's a fancy dress party - we’ll all be in costume.”

“What are you, then?” Tozer drinks some more, quite enjoying the bubbles now. 

The bed has lumps. He wouldn't have believed it, but the ornately carved mahogany four poster is much less comfortable than his own creaking pallet in the workshop. The mattress is firm, hardly any give to it, and he can feel the bedsprings poking even through the counterpane. He sucks on the posh cigarette and stands up, stretching again and checking his shirt is tucked in properly. 

“I’m wearing this, actually,” James finally turns around, holding a wooden hanger with a fine, shimmering garment draped over one arm. 

It’s a dress - cut in the modern style, more like a slip or undergarment than anything; all loose and straight up and down. It’s a deep burnt orange colour, almost terracotta, with glittering golden beads sewn on where Tozer supposes the waist must be. 

James holds it up for him, his chin raised as though he is bracing for response. Even having eight sisters, Solomon has never known what to say about dresses, but he smiles and nods and does his best.

“Looks like that set you back a few pennies,” he says, “did you have a tailor make it up?”

“Actually I placed an order with a shop in the Burlington Arcade, then had Phoebe collect it for me - you’ll meet Phoebe, she’s a marvel - I believe she told them it was for her cousin who was an Olympic shot putter, to account for the shoulder measurements.”

“Fancy that,” Solomon chuckles. “Well I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything so fine up close, you’d better get it on.” 

James throws him a brilliant smile which tells him he has said the right thing, and then retires behind the dressing screen. 

“You really must drink up, you know,” he calls, his head ducking and bobbing over the top of the screen as he gets out of his shirt and trousers, “by now I expect everyone else will be utterly  _ pie-eyed _ , and if you're not just a little bit tight then no one will make any sense."

Solomon dutifully finishes his glass and pours another. He still thinks he’d prefer ale, but the champagne seems to be having twice the effect of his usual evening pint anyway, and he stubs out his cigarette then goes to stand by the window again while he waits. 

The sky has cooled to a soft twilight blue, the village can hardly be seen except for a few tiny yellow lights and spindly grey threads of smoke rising from the cottage chimneys. It’s strange to be so removed from it all. He doesn’t think he’s spent an evening out of Culswen since he came back from France.

He hasn't celebrated a birthday since then, either. Lydia might cook him a nice tea and fetch him a packet of his particular favourite tobacco, but he doesn't mark it. No rounds at the pub, and certainly no dressing up for the occasion.

“What’ll they make of me, then?” He asks, cautiously, “your London friends?”

“Oh, them? They’ll find you fascinating. Dundy already adores you.”

“ _ Adores  _ me,” Solomon snorts. He’ll have to learn a whole new way of talking just to get through the evening. 

“Really, you mustn’t feel at all out of place, just behave as you would anywhere, they certainly will. I say, turn the lights on, would you, it’s getting a bit gloomy in here.”

Turning back into the room Tozer crosses to the switch by the door. The electric lights either side of the fireplace and over the bed stutter into life, the filaments making the sound of tiny wings beating inside the glass - and then suddenly burst into light, casting shadows across the pale carpet and blackening the windows. Taking another gulp of champagne, he catches sight of the wardrobe, now standing with the doors wide open. Under the effervescent hum of the lightbulbs he finds himself drawn to the bright garments hanging inside, and takes a step closer, before stopping himself and glancing at the dressing screen.

James is watching him, peering over the top, and pulls an indifferent expression. 

“You can look if you like, I wouldn't hide anything from you,” he says, unseen fabric rustling quietly.

Thus encouraged, Solomon reaches in to carefully sift through the items. The metal hooks of the coathangers make a pleasant sound as he slides them along the brass rail one by one. There are plenty of linen suits and tweeds and sharp black evening jackets, all just as he expected. He touches a collar here, runs his finger down the crease in a leg there. The clothes smell of Fitzjames - expensive cologne and brilliantine, along with lavender to keep the moths away. 

Towards the right side of the wardrobe Solomon finds another dress - this one in emerald green velvet. Behind that is a violet coloured number with silver tassels at the sleeves and pearls sewn in swirling patterns across the front - next red satin, then black lace. These cannot all be costumes, he thinks, and they certainly do not belong to any woman.

He lets them fall back into place, finishing his drink - is it his third now? He ought to keep better count. James is still eyeing him over the screen, he can feel it on the back of his neck. Turning to look at him, Solomon nods at the gowns, “you’ve more of those than I have trousers.”

James laughs, looking down, perhaps to fasten something. 

Solomon turns the stem of his glass between his fingers thoughtfully. “Wear dresses often, then?”

"Yes, I do."

"To parties?"

"...often to parties, yes," James steps out from behind the screen finally, fully dressed. 

Whatever measurements the seamstress was given must have been followed to the letter, Solomon cannot help admiring fine craftsmanship when he sees it - the flame coloured silk moves as James moves, shifting smoothly over his body, gathered at the front where thousands of tiny golden beads form an intricately patterned belt sitting across his hips. The skirt comes just to his knees, and here the silk has been cut into pleats and slits that flutter as he walks, offering a glimpse of his long, lean thighs and sheer black stockings.

James lowers his eyes and turns to gaze at himself in the standing mirror. He smiles at his reflection with great satisfaction, turning his neck this way and that, then raising his chin - and Tozer sees it at once. He is happy. Recognising what is being shared with him, he enjoys the moment for what it is.

“Well, then?” Fitzjames finally looks at him. His shoulders are all but bare, Solomon realises - only two gleaming golden straps keep the entire garment from slipping off completely, leaving the shadowed curve of his collarbone and most of his chest exposed. He swallows dryly and finds he needs to clear his throat.

“These modern frocks suit you better than that old ball gown in the attic, eh?” He says.

James’ eyes glitter and he smiles even wider, “I wondered if you'd remember that.”

“I remember you trying to show me how to waltz and me stepping on your feet.”

“Oh, now, you were  _ deliberately _ bad at it.”

“And I’ve learnt no better since, in case you had any ideas about this evening.”

“As if I’d let you near me in those boots. Ruffian.” James affects an arrogant stance, looking down his nose at Solomon, rolling his shoulders back. As he does he catches sight of himself in the mirror again and smiles once more at his lovely reflection, dress catching the light. 

Tozer licks his lips, unable to resist the urge to touch him, and steps forward to kiss him again, taking him in his arms. The silk is soft and light as air under his hands. He can feel every curve and edge of James’s lithe body beneath, and grips him tighter, pressing his fingers in enough to elicit a gasp, which he swallows in a deep kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "Joy and Pleasure" by W.H. Davies
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. A party (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party really gets going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and admiration to kt_fairy, who keeps me going.

_ On the occasion of Lord James Gambier’s twenty-ninth birthday, Mr H.T.D. Le Vesconte humbly presents a menu of red and white delicacies to surprise and delight the sophisticated modern palette. _

**_Appetiser_ **

_ Tomato consommé _

_ * _

**_Fish course_ **

_ Lobster with salmon roe, white fish and oysters _

_ * _

**_Main course_ **

_ Steak tartare with onions _

_ * _

**_Salad course_ **

_ Cauliflower, fennel and radish _

_ * _

**_Cheese course_ **

_ Camembert in aspic _

_ * _

**_Dessert_ **

_ Pavlova with strawberries and raspberries _

Before the meal is halfway over Solomon finds his movements have grown clumsy, his thoughts loud, and every corner of the room is bright and roaring. It cannot be eight o’clock yet, and he has lost count of how many drinks - how many combinations of spirits - he has been served. They go down very smooth and hit you very hard, he has learnt. 

Mr Le Vesconte is presiding over the meal with baronial charm, and has appointed himself master of cups, ruling over the bar - a silver trolley rattling with coloured bottles and a bucket of rapidly melting ice which he attends to between each course. He was also responsible for the printing of the little menu cards, which Solomon is still struggling to make head or tail of.

The long dining table is made up plainly with a crisp white cloth and silverware, decorated with three vases of red and white roses - courtesy of Mr Peglar, no doubt, though it isn’t mentioned. At first Solomon was distracted by the rest of the dining room; the marble fireplace, the noisy red and gold wallpaper and grand gilt-framed portraits of handsome young women from centuries past, but as the night wears on these luxurious details shrink in importance and become nothing more than a warm backdrop which set the stage for the true curiosities of the evening - that is, Fitzjames' friends. Such a peculiar company Solomon has never seen. 

If anyone in Culswen could see him now then they would think he has run away and joined a circus, or at the very least a troupe of theatricals, for every guest at the table is dressed in such gay and absurd attire that Fitzjames' lovely dress seems entirely ordinary.

Mr Le Vesconte, for example, has made himself up as a clown, dressed in loose fitting white pyjamas with great woolly bobbles sewn on the front, a red ruff about his neck and a conical hat. With his rosey cheeks and garrulous manner, he seems to Solomon like loose-jointed a poppet brought out of a child’s nursery. 

“When I saw this glorious room I just knew red and white had to be the theme,” Le Vesconte explained cheerfully when the guests all took their seats.

“Fortitude in the face of adversity, as always,” was Fitzjames’ wry response. “I would like to assure you all that I  _ do _ have plans to redecorate,” he added, apologetically. Solomon didn’t understand what was wrong with it, but one of the other guests, a Mr Edward Charlewood, piped up;

“It’s not all bad, old man - my sister-in-law just re-did her breakfast room in  _ green _ , can you imagine? Utterly sick-making.”

Mr Charlewood is a tall, handsome man with a ruddy face, and has arrived dressed all in scarlet, swathed in a sinister cloak with little red skull cap and glittering devil’s horns perched on his unruly mop of curls. 

“That’s nothing,” Miss Harper-Brown chimed in, taking a seat beside Solomon, “I heard that Mabel Wellesby is painting her parlour orange -  _ orange _ ! Apparently somebody told her it is the most decadent colour, and you know she would parade naked through Sloane Square if it was declared decadent, the little fool.”

“And what is wrong with  _ orange _ , may I ask?” Fitzjames arched an eyebrow and casually dragged an elegant finger across the neckline of his dress.

“You look utterly divine, and I refuse to tell you so because you already know it,” Phoebe poked out her pink tongue at him.

Phoebe Harper-Brown is unlike any woman Solomon has ever seen outside of a moving picture. Her hair is black as lacquer, trimmed short enough to graze her jaw, framing an angular face and the green-gold eyes of a tabby cat. Her lips are painted red in a neat bow, and she has come in the costume of Joan of Arc, with a breastplate she says is made of tin, and a grey smock underneath which barely skims her knees, only thin stockings to cover her long legs. 

She's an uncommonly beautiful woman, and her loud voice and a swaggering cheer reminds Solomon of the game girls who used to drive the munitions trucks in the war. He did always love to see them in their boiler suits, so jolly and boisterous - of course, Phoebe is much too well bred for that sort of thing, she is an heiress, if Solomon has been following the conversation correctly.

Phoebe seemed to take a great interest in Tozer from the first.

“Ah,  _ you  _ are the local chap, are you? Goodness me, what a lovely big brute you are,” she purred, a hand on his upper arm. He didn’t know what to say, but Mr Charlewood let out a great booming laugh,

“Steady on, old girl, give the poor fellow a little warning before you pounce, eh?”

“He’d give you a run for your money at rugger, don’t you think, Ned darling? What was it James said you did for a living?” She didn’t move her hand, but squeezed with her fingers.

“I am a stone mason,” Solomon replied carefully, glancing at James. 

(“They all know me awfully well, so you mustn’t be shocked by anything they say,” James had hurriedly explained before they came downstairs, “only Dundy knows about… about our  _ connection _ , so to speak, the others simply know you as my friend, and I shall leave any further disclosures at your discretion.” Solomon couldn’t help wishing Fitzjames had made the decision one way or another.)

“Aha, there you are!" Phoebe squeezed him again, "splendid for the muscles, all that heaving and hammering - am I right? Of course I am - Ned, I bet he could out-row you, too.”

“Now see here!” 

“In a cattish mood tonight, Phoebe dear?” This blithe remark came from a man sitting at the farthest end of the table, whose Christian name Solomon still doesn’t know, but who everybody calls ‘ _ Guppy’ _ . 

He is the only member of the party Solomon has taken a true dislike to, and the feeling is apparently mutual; when introduced he declined to shake Tozer’s hand, instead nodding his head and barely concealing a thin smirk. He is also in historical dress, got up like a French dandy with a frock coat and powdered wig. He is even wearing lipstick, and his entire ensemble is matched down to the last detail by the young Italian man he has brought with him. 

“She’s only trying to get a rise out of me,” Ned says cheerfully, “damned devilish girl knows how to cut a man.”

“You boys do make it so dreadfully easy,” Phoebe replied lightly, sipping from her cocktail glass. “All one needs to do to get a man’s attention is question his physical prowess.”

“Then you agree it is attention you are after,” Guppy says.

“Rich coming from you,  _ Madame Antoinette _ ,” Phoebe throws back at him, releasing Solomon’s arm and returning to her meal.

The watery broth and the fish course Tozer could cope with, for he has at least eaten lobster and oysters before, though he avoided the queasy looking red beads of roe. The main course, however, he finds alarming - the meat being entirely raw and minced up like a tin of corned beef, or scraps for the dog. He can’t help wondering what his mother would make of it.

He is not the only one to suffer - Natasha, Mr Le Vesconte’s famous ballerina sweetheart has placed herself at the end of the table, opposite James who sits at the head. When the food arrives she heaves a sigh, and announces in a strong musical accent, 

“I told Henry he should  _ not _ include this dish, but now I am afraid we will all be poisoned.”

The polite laughter which follows sets Tozer somewhat at ease, but he quickly resolves not to eat a bite.

Natasha is a striking young woman, with a long thin nose and liquid black eyes. This evening she is Cleopatra, bedecked in strings and strings of blue and gold beads, eyelids painted green and lined thickly in black, so that every time Solomon catches her eye he feels she could curse him with a wink. (He is conscious to meet her gaze every time, however, as the white dress she is wearing beneath all of the beads is almost completely transparent and he dare not be caught looking any lower).

“Raw cow,” she tuts, covering her plate with her napkin.

“Bridgens is a very fine chef, I can assure you all,” James puts in quickly.

“Then he ought to know that meat must be  _ cooked _ before it is served.”

“Now, Tasha,” Dundy says, darting about the room filling glasses, “ _ steak tartare _ is all the rage in America.”

“And this is supposed to explain it?” Natasha laughs throatily, “you English and your fads.”

The young Italian laughs aloud, quite suddenly, covering his mouth with his napkin. Phoebe grins too, “is that how you stay so trim, Miss Tarasova?”

“Poisoned beef?” Everybody laughs again.

“I expect it’s all callisthenics, gymnastics, that sort of thing?”

“I see the direction you are aiming at, Phoebe,” Charlewood teases. He has slouched down in his chair slightly, and Phoebe jumps. Tozer supposes she has received a kick. He cannot discern their relationship - he thought perhaps they were lovers, but their behaviour continues to puzzle him. “Just ask the man if he has ever done any rowing and be done with it.”

“Mr Tozer -  _ Solomon _ ,” she turns her golden eyes on him, “have you done much rowing?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Rugby, then?”

“No, Miss.”

“Well, what sport--”

“Aha, there’s a game!” Guppy raps his knuckles on the table, “as some of us are more familiar than others this evening,” his heavy lidded doe-eyes land on Solomon for a brief moment, “then how about it? Two truths and a lie, and no one may say any more about themselves until we have finished.”

“Jolly good,” Le Vesconte says, finally taking his seat next to Fitzjames, “who will start? Not I, you know the trouble I have coming up with lies - Jim, will you help me?”

“James ought to begin, then,” Phoebe suggests, “it is his birthday.”

“Here here, come on then Fitz, you’re too good at this game,” Ned raises his glass.

The only party games Solomon has ever played are Blind Man’s Buff, or British Bulldog, and he hopes it will be a while before he is called upon. 

“Let me see,” James sits back in his seat, thinking and clearly enjoying everybody’s eyes on him, “ah, I have it.” He smiles to himself and looks down at the table, realigning his knife on the table cloth so that it lies parallel with his cigarette case. “Now, while I have never been so decadent as to march  _ naked _ through Sloane Square, I certainly have made a display of myself in that neck of the woods. I put to you that I was with three Royal Marines, we were drinking nothing but dry vermouth and were chased by a policeman.” 

Everybody laughs, and Phoebe insists that the entire story is a lie, for otherwise she ought to have been there. Solomon doesn’t say a word, he cannot account for any of it, except for the part about the marines, which he half hopes is true, for he’d like to hear about it later.

“The policeman,” Charlewood says in the end, “that must be the lie, for as many transgressions as I know Fitz has committed, we all know that he is never caught.”

A murmur of agreement passes around the table. 

“And nor was I,” James replies coolly, lighting a cigarette, “I said that we were chased, not caught. The part about the policeman was true.” He smiles smugly at the uproar this revelation causes. “So, if I remember the rules correctly, you must all take a drink.”

Everybody does, including Solomon, still somewhat confused.

“Then which is the truth?”

“That isn’t the game, Guppy,” James shrugs dismissively. “Dundy! Are you ready, old boy?”

“Yes, ah… well, I declare that once I---”

“Lie,” James says, at once.

“I hadn’t finished - I hadn’t even begun!”

“Yes, but you were going to lie, you touched your earlobe - take note, Miss Tarasova,” James calls up the table. The ballerina raises her glass, laughing heartily, her beads clinking and her glittering bust trembling. Tozer quickly looks down at his plate. 

“You’re quite right, of course,” Le Vesconte sighs, finishing his drink. “Any more for any more?” He looks at the half-full glasses about the table and rises again to replenish them. 

“Your turn, Guppy, dear,” James gestures with his cigarette. 

Bridgens enters and begins to clear away the plates. Solomon feels dreadful about his untouched meal, but nothing is said.

“Well,” Guppy clears his throat, drawing himself up. He has a long nose with large nostrils, and very wide eyes. He might be good-looking, under all the powder, but it’s very difficult to tell with all the airs he puts on. “One,” he raises a finger, “I was named after an ancestor of mine who was present at the signing of the Magna Carta.”

“Oh,” Phoebe flaps her hands, “you are showing off, everybody knows that is true.”

“Two,” he ignores her, raising a second finger, “I have made love with no less than three of the people sitting at this very table.”

James inhales sharply and he stubs out his cigarette rather roughly in the ashtray Bridgens has just set beside him.

“And three,” the corners of Guppy’s mouth curl upwards, “I sang in the choir at Eton.”

“I’m not sure you’ve understood the rules, Guppy old chap,” Charlewood turns to him, “you were supposed to make it difficult for us to guess.”

“I suppose it does rather depend what you mean by lovemaking,” Le Vesconte says, raising the silver cocktail shaker and agitating it vigorously, “...and do remember there are ladies present.”

“I think he meant fucking, Henry,” offers Natasha, and Solomon has to look at his place setting again, almost choking on his drink. 

“Dundy, if you don’t marry this girl, I’ll have her,” Phoebe laughs, patting Solomon on the back with her light fingers.

“Well?” Guppy raises his voice, drawing attention back to himself. 

“Oh, leave off, you know very well what you’ve done here,” Phoebe says, “unless you’ve been carrying on with Charlewood without any of us knowing?”

“Alas,” Ned clutches his heart and rolls his eyes.

“There we are then. If you are trying to embarrass poor Giacomo--”

“I am not embarrassed,” the Italian says merrily.

“--Then you are trying to make James blush, and we all know that’s impossible,” Phoebe replies, quick as a whip. Solomon would beg to differ, except he cannot help looking from Guppy to James and then back again. So that is it, he thinks. 

“There you have it,” James says, lighting a second cigarette. “You were lying about your conquests, of which there are only two present. Which means you must drink, are you happy?”

“Exceedingly,” Guppy swallows the remainder of his glass. He eyes Tozer over the rim, and smiles again as he sets it down, “I do think it is better that we are all honest, don’t you, James darling?”

“My turn next, is it?” Charlewood says, very red in the face from spirits now, to match his outfit. His statements all relate to rowing or rugby, and result in an incomprehensible argument with Mr Le Vesconte over a particular race from their Cambridge days. 

The game continues as Bridgens returns with the next course - a plate of thinly sliced vegetables, all white. Solomon eats every scrap, partly to quell his gnawing guilt over the beef, partly to occupy himself while he tries to think of something to say when his own turn arrives. He doesn’t look at Guppy again, but he does look at James, who seems to have recovered from whatever dig was intended, and joins in heartily with the rest of the fun. He doesn’t return Solomon's gaze, for reasons of his own, no doubt. 

It doesn’t trouble Solomon so much as surprise him that Guppy is the sort of man he courted in London. They clearly enjoy the same kinds of outrageous fun, they are both well spoken, well educated and quick-witted. It is only that Guppy seems so very spiteful. He takes delight in teasing and is a careless inquisitor who enjoys asking the most personal questions without listening to the response. Fitzjames has always been sharp, but he never means any harm.

As Solomon ponders this and the assembled company squeal with laughter at Charlewood’s confessions, he is reminded again how incongruous his presence is at the table. Hoping to keep his wits, he drinks from his water glass next, and finishes all of it without gulping or drawing attention to himself. 

Natasha is as good at the game as James, and nobody can tell - not even Le Vesconte - whether she has truly been the lover of an exiled Russian prince, speaks Chinese, or has a witch for a grandmother. They are all forced to drink again. 

Giacomo’s lie is that he did not know a word of English until he met Guppy (which he pronounces ‘ _ Gah-ppy _ ’ with great enthusiasm) - but the truth is quickly uncovered;

“When we met the first thing you said to me was ‘ _ English Gentleman _ ’ and ‘ _ very rich _ ’” Guppy trills. Solomon would be ashamed to hear that said about himself, but Giacomo laughs,

“And I was correct,  _ mio caro _ .”

The cheese (if it can be called that, for encased in aspic it looks like some dire experiment from a scientific periodical) is being served by the time Phoebe takes her turn, and it is only Tozer left. 

“Mr Tozer,” Guppy says finally, wolfishly licking his lips, “your time has come.”

“Don’t feel you have to, Solomon,” Phoebe says, wiping tears from her eyes, still recovering from her own confessions, which included an automobile, an aircraft and bicycle, though no one had been able to guess which was the lie. She leans into Tozer, touching his thigh under the table, “he’s a vulture, shoo him away if you like.”

“Nonsense, it’s all good fun,” Guppy insists, looking into a pocket mirror and adjusting one of the powder blue bows on his enormous white wig. “Mr Tozer is sure to delight us all, considering he is a stranger and may say whatever he likes.”

Solomon glances at James again, and receiving no signal he presses on,

“Well,” he says, “let me see.” He has finished his water, and returns to the cocktail he was last served - it tastes of summer fruit and something bitter underneath. “I have lived in Culswen all of my life, though my mother was born in Wales. I have ten brothers and sisters.”

“Culswen? Is that the name of the little hamlet at the bottom of the hill?” Guppy tilts his head.

“It’s the most charming place you ever saw,” Le Vesconte says. “God’s own country.”

“Do you speak any Welsh?” Charlewood asks, thoughtfully.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Then I say that is the lie - your mother.”

“A family of eleven, though!” Phoebe speaks up. “That cannot be true.”

“Very common in places like this,” Guppy yawns. “Hardly many other distractions around here, are there?”

“I don’t know,” Phoebe raises an eyebrow, “my mother has been bored since the day she married, and she only managed two of us.”

“Then we all agree, your mother is not Welsh.”

Solomon grins, triumphant, “she certainly is.”

“I was right!” Phoebe slaps his thigh, leaning even closer, “you are not one of eleven.”

“No, one of thirteen,” Solomon winks. 

This is all found to be very amusing, and well it might be - even in the village the endless expansion of the Tozer-Jakes family is considered something of a local joke. 

Once everyone has finished their glasses and Le Vesconte hops up to see to the next round, Solomon chances another look at Fitzjames, who is watching him with a look of quiet satisfaction. 

Troubling though the cheese was, Solomon finds the dessert of meringue and fresh fruit to be the nicest part of the meal, and now that he has made everybody laugh the room feels more at ease with him. Phoebe paws at him occasionally, but he minds it less and less as he watches how Le Vesconte throws a friendly arm around James, or when Charlewood kisses Guppy’s hand like a liege lord. They are different from the kind of folk you would meet in The Ship, that is for certain; free with affection and quick to remark on almost anything; but a roomful of drunks is a roomful of drunks, and Solomon resolves to settle in and see where the evening takes him. 

He likes listening to their voices; the way they shape every letter of every word, stretching out sounds and clipping others with brisk dexterity. It is like listening to the radio, or reading a cartoon in the paper. Everyone has something to say, they bat subjects about almost as if they are playing another game over the top of his head - the object of which appears to be demonstrating cleverness. Speaking at such length - and about such trivial matters - would surely be considered self-important in Culswen, and roundly quashed; using words for the sake of using them, people would think you had certain ideas about yourself. 

Over coffee, however, talk turns in a different direction. Solomon takes his without any sugar or milk, hoping that it will sober him up a bit, for his head is awhirl with unexpected notions and meandering thoughts, and he is aware that he has grown sluggish in his speech. He doesn’t want to let Fitzjames down, he thinks childishly, swallowing the burning bitter brew. 

“I call it no less than treason, the behaviour of these unions,” barks Guppy, his tone quite changed.

"Oh dear, must we have politics?" drawls Phoebe, lighting a cigarette, "if you bring up the bloody bolsheviks I shall scream." 

She offers her case to Tozer. He refuses - Lydia never allows smoking at the table, and the combination of rich food and spirits already in him doesn’t need any further encouragement.

“What they are asking is beyond the pale,” Guppy continues, stirring sugar into his coffee. “A rise in wages,  _ now _ , when the economy is already in tatters.”

“I do think it seems fair enough when many of these men who fought in the war now face losing their jobs--” Le Vesconte pipes up. 

“Ah, and now we must discuss the war,” Phoebe mutters to herself, folding her arms and sitting back. “How dreadfully common.”

“You see, this is exactly the kind of talk we don’t need,” Guppy points at Le Vesconte, “radicalism and nonsense. It wasn’t their  _ jobs _ they were fighting for - it was their  _ country _ \- for the preservation and progress of the Empire and its best interests. You know what I mean, don't you, Mr Tozer?"

"I beg your pardon?" Solomon reels. 

"You fought in the war, I take it?"

"I did," Solomon sets his napkin down carefully, unsure he is equal to the conversation. “Royal Engineers.”

"And what reward did you expect?"

“I don't know that I expected any.”

“There you have it - good enough to have fought for your country, eh, Tozer? For this wonderful land.”

“Well, I have never owned any land, myself," Solomon frowns, trying to puzzle his way through it.

"For the  _ good of _ the land, is what I mean." Guppy’s sneers, delivering a pitying look which strikes a spark of annoyance in Solomon. “And what do you think of the plight of the miners, eh? Let’s have the perspective of the  _ working _ man.”

“I am not a miner. But I do read the papers. I think that if my salary had reduced to three pounds and sixty pence then I should think it rather unfair.”

“Don’t you think they ought to move with the times? Since the war the coal industry simply cannot continue as it has been; the government can’t be blamed for that, can they?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“There you are, then,” Guppy says, as if he and Tozer have found common ground somewhere. “These trade unions are all very well and good, but they simply don’t understand basic economics. Things have  _ improved _ for the lower classes since the war." He looks around the table, seeking nods of approval. Nobody will meet his eye to agree or dissent, they only look bored and as though they wish the matter was closed. Solomon realises with blinding clarity that this man is not an extraordinary wit at all. He is nothing more than a blowhard - a braggart who likes the sound of his own opinions. 

“...and of course Mr Tozer here is a perfect example of what I mean,” Guppy now indicates him, “here is a man who ten years ago could not have hoped to have been invited to a party like this.”

“I say, rather rude of you.” Charlewood says at once, roused from his cups with indignation. 

"Yes, see here, Guppy," says James, “bad form.”

“Not at all,” Guppy shakes his head in mock-surprise, “he understands, don’t you, Tozer? Come now, I’ll prove it - how does your father make his living?”

“My father is dead,” Solomon replies, with deliberate bluntness. “But he and my step father were farm hands - and poachers, when the mood struck.”

He is aware of the titter which follows this, and the look he receives from James. Remembering that he has been invited and ought to be polite, he adds, “my mother was the cook here, though, until 1920.”

“Ah, there you have it! A poor woman who no doubt spent years of her life in service to this great house, and now you, her offspring, sit to dine with us.”

“I’m not sure I understand your point.”

“Nor I,” James says, frowning.

“Well, it’s remarkable, isn’t it? The seismic shift in attitudes, the socially amorphous times we are living in. There’s an awful lot of change coming - a man  _ can _ ‘climb the ranks’, as it were, but it is only possible with the true British spirit of hard work and honest labour -  _ not _ coming to the government cap in hand and threatening strikes, for goodness sake." He laughs too gregariously at his own conclusion and spills brandy down his front, cursing harshly and dabbing at it with his napkin. Natasha tuts loudly at him.

“May I ask how your father makes his living?” Solomon says, watching him closely, “supposing it isn’t an ignorant question.”

“ _ My _ father?” Guppy looks up from his dabbing, annoyed, “he is Viscount Foxbeck.”

“No chance of him moving up a rank, then.” Solomon replies conversationally, nodding when Le Vesconte holds up a bottle of brandy inquisitively. 

“I should say not,” the silly man laughs his dreadful rattling laugh again.

“Only way is down, I s’pose.” Tozer mutters. Natasha bursts out laughing, which sets off Giacomo again, and then Charlewood. 

"Well, I--" beneath his face powder, Solomon is sure Guppy has turned quite red.

"Guppy, darling, you're being a dreadful bore, do shut up." Phoebe purrs. 

* * * 

“You  _ like _ Beardsley!”

“Guppy, this is  _ not _ a Beardsley,” James snorts, peering down at the print he has just unwrapped. 

They have relocated to the parlour following supper, and the little tea-table is piled up with gifts in boxes large and small, wrapped up in coloured paper and ribbon. Le Vesconte’s gift, which Tozer brought with him, is sitting to one side, and has also been decorated with a lavender satin ribbon tied in a neat bow. 

“Well, no, but you must admit it’s a bally good counterfeit, eh?” Guppy nudges James. They are sitting side by side on the settee after Guppy insisted on his present being opened first. “Picked it up from a filthy little merchant near the colosseum, you ought to have  _ seen _ the place.”

“Ah, I should have known. Thank you, in any case, I shall have to find somewhere for it.”

“Come on then, do share,” Natasha says impatiently, seated in a great wingback armchair, looking every inch the heathen queen. She sits with her legs neatly together and her back straight, which has the effect of pushing her shoulders back and her breasts out. In the brightly lit room Solomon can see the dark outline of her nipples through her chemise, and he has given up trying to avoid looking. 

Le Vesconte passes her the image, as he is sitting on the other side of James. She cackles when she sees it, throwing her head back so that her beads clink and chime against each other. 

“Men,” she says, passing the prints on to Phoebe who is kneeling on the floor in front of the table. 

“Goodness,” she exclaims, “Guppy you  _ utter deviant _ .”

Solomon, standing just behind Phoebe, peers over her head for a look, and is glad that he is as drunk as he is, because it dulls his reaction enough that his surprise doesn’t register. He has never seen anything like it - not that you would call ‘art’. More like the crude sketches passed about in barracks and trenches. Solomon’s recent investment in reading material means he can confidently identify the style as  _ Art Nouveau _ (a phrase he has yet only seen written down and is damned if he knows how to speak it aloud), with its sense of movement and whiplash strokes. 

As a composition it is very strikingly rendered; impossibly thin lines, sweeping curves, dainty stippled lace and great ink black pools. The subjects of the print - one a well-dressed gentleman with long tumbling curls and a delicate heart shaped mouth, the other a kind of harlequin with a belled hat and black eye mask - are both sporting grotesquely enormous erections. They are enthusiastically engaged in frigging each other, surrounded by swathes of patterned cloth - or perhaps it is a garden of strange otherworldly flowers. It is as ugly as it is compelling. 

He blinks, then looks up at James, who is watching him again, an uncertain look in his eye. Solomon puffs out his cheeks, making his eyes bulge and shaking his head with exaggerated concern, and James’ face breaks into a grin. 

“Open mine next,” Phoebe sits up, leaning across the low table. She discards the lewd print, leaving it to Charlewood who picks it up, looks, then immediately turns it face down with a yelp. 

“Too rich for my blood,” he murmurs to Solomon, who nods in agreement. Guppy gets up to snatch it back from them.

James now has a very large box on his lap, and is unwrapping it with trepidation, glancing over the table at Phoebe.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing vulgar,” she reassures him, getting up and moving into the space on the settee Guppy has left. “Though I suppose that depends what you intend to do with it.”

James raises an intrigued eyebrow as he unfolds the paper and reveals a square box. He lifts the lid and looks inside, and then his face lights up with joy. “Oh! Charming!”

Everyone gathers closer to watch James lift out the smallest camera Tozer has ever seen.

“It’s German,” Phoebe gushes, “takes film, instead of plates - so much more durable. I saw it and just had to.”

“It’s splendid!”

“Rather,” Dundy leans in, and Charlewood hurries around the back of the settee to look as well. Solomon would like to get closer but he doesn’t want to crowd them. 

“Well when you told me you had no time for drawing anymore, I thought - photography! Instant art. Of course, you’ll need a darkroom - but you’ve plenty of rooms to choose from now.”

“You’re too thoughtful,” James smiles at her, and she kisses his cheek.

“Leaves my gift somewhat in the dust,” Charlewood says, withdrawing a pipe from his pocket and raising it to his mouth. “Hope you’ll like ‘em anyway, old man.”

James returns to the table and has to stand up to open Charlewood’s box, which is the largest. He laughs aloud when he peers inside, and pulls out a pair of rollerskates, and then another.

“Extras, to replace the pair I borrowed,” Charlewood explains, puffing smoke and looking very pleased with himself.

“The pair you  _ lost _ ,” James throws over his shoulder, “thank you Ned. Dundy - have you brought--”

“I have them upstairs,” Le Vesconte says, quick as a flash, “fastest around the ballroom, later?”

“I say,” Charlewood adds, “I’ve always wanted to have a proper whizz around a ballroom.”

“We used to pretend to ice-skate on our ballroom at home,” Phoebe says, “after the maid had polished it, we’d go in with our bed socks and slide around for hours.”

Solomon drinks his drink - it’s champagne again, and he knocks it back without any trouble at all now. Perhaps he will develop a taste for fine things, he thinks drowsily, perhaps after tonight nothing will taste the same to him again.

“Mr Tozer,” Guppy says, suddenly, “we haven’t had your gift yet.”

“Me?” Solomon blinks dumbly, taking a moment to remember what is going on.

“Honestly, there’s no need--” James starts to say, but Solomon shrugs,

“Got you the same as always.”

James laughs, “you didn’t!”

“It was no bother,” he reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws the paper bag, twisted at the top and heavy with boiled sweets. He tosses it across the table and James catches it deftly in both hands. 

“I haven’t had these in  _ years! _ ” He beams, digging inside.

“I say,” Le Vesconte licks his lips, “what’s this then?”

“Sherberts!”

It’s a trivial thing - as children Solomon used to bring James sweets from the village shop, for he was very rarely permitted treats of that kind. His favourites were always the sharp ones - lemon and lime and pineapple sherbets. The bag is passed around and everyone indulges, and for the next few minutes the room is quite silent as they each suck on their boiled sweet, before Charlewood crunches down on his.

“And last but by no means least,” Le Vesconte makes to stand, tugging down his billowing clownish shirt as he does. “Now, I must confess that this was a joint effort between Solomon and myself,” he explains taking up the roll of paper which lies amongst the discarded wrapping. 

“It was?” James looks up at Solomon again, who shrugs.

“Indeed,” Le Vesconte, “and this is only a  _ preliminary _ ... that is to say, it is only a hint at the actual gift, which - oh, well, open it and see, Jim.”

Visibly intrigued, James pulls apart the ribbon with one quick movement, and unrolls the sketch which Solomon only completed this morning - it is a copy, the original pinned to the wall of his workshop still. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks, shuffling forward to see. Phoebe, still beside Fitzjames, gasps, her red mouth forming a comical ‘o’ shape, and looks up at Tozer with admiring eyes,

“You drew this?”

“Designed the whole thing!” Le Vesconte confirms.

“Let’s see it, then,” Guppy says, hands on his hips. 

The table is cleared of its colourful debris, and James lays out the drawing flat. Solomon is very pleased with the way it came together, he knew exactly what he wanted to make the moment Le Vesconte suggested it all those Sundays ago. He hopes that the finished statue will be placed by the lake, or at least that was the thought in his head when he drew it. 

It will be life-sized; the figure of a young man standing on a rock, naked and leaning forward with his arms outstretched, ready to dive into the water. About his feet Solomon has envisioned leaping fish, crabs, starfish and ribbons of seaweed coiling up about his legs. He’s not a beautiful youth - his limbs are a little too long and waist a little too narrow, ribs apparent above his jutting hips, but Solomon hopes that he has the unconscious and ungainly grace of adolescence - the wildness of a boy destined for greater things. 

“One of the Greeks?” Giacomo asks, leaning over the back of the settee and looking up at Tozer beneath his dark lashes.

Solomon shakes his head, “Welsh,” he says, “it’s  _ Dylan ail Don _ .”

“The son of the wave,” James says, finally looking up at him, “Solomon, it’s beautiful.”

“It is Mr Le Vesconte’s gift,” Solomon shifts under the sudden weight of everyone’s attention.

“On the contrary,” Phoebe says, pouring over the sketch, “the gift is all yours, Solomon dear. Have you other work?”

“Not like this.”

“He’s a wonderful sculptor,” James says emphatically, “a far better artist than I ever was.”

Solomon turns hot and finishes his drink. He has never been called an artist before.

“Will it be marble?” Phoebe is asking.

“Bronze,” says Le Vesconte, “once we have our man here set up with all the necessaries.”

“Beautiful,” she nods, looking at the image again, and then back up at Tozer. 

More drinks are called for, and the wrapping paper left to be cleared up by Mr Bridgens while Charlewood proposes that they all play a game. Solomon is relieved to hear it won’t be another truth-telling exercise, but something called  _ Sardines, _ which is like hide-and-seek in reverse. 

“Oh, ripping!” Phoebe stands at once, “let me hide first, I can’t wait to have a good poke about this place.” They all agree that she may, and she leaves the room at once, swaying her hips and carrying her cocktail glass in one hand.

Once she is gone, the rest of them count to one hundred, and the idea is to split up and find her. Should they come upon her, they must then join her in her hiding place one by one, until there is only one man left standing. 

It’s a fine enough idea, but drunk and without any knowledge of the layout of Cadwallen Hoo, Solomon finds himself hopelessly lost after five minutes. He climbs a staircase and follows a few corridors to a dead end, then turns back and climbs another, only sparing a cursory glance at each room he passes, for he has no interest in winning the game and is somewhat enjoying the peace, a moment to gather his thoughts.

He wonders whether Fitzjames played this game as a child. It’s a wonderful house for hiding places, there must be cupboards and nooks that have been left unexplored for decades; Solomon can easily imagine his own siblings having the run of the place. Fitzjames was never fond of his older brothers, though, and they always seemed very serious, so perhaps they didn’t play together.

Laughter and whoops of excitement echo distantly on other floors, and Solomon begins to wish that he’d hung back and followed Fitzjames, for he would like some reassurance that the evening is going well. He daren’t look for him now, in case he comes upon Guppy instead. He might walk about in solitude for an hour, he thinks, and never find any of them - that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

The darkness and the quiet isolation reminds him of a dream he often had as a boy of walking through a silent maze, alone and seeking a friend. He has not thought of that for years; those nightmares now replaced by stifling underground tunnels, clouds of gas and the stench of death. Shaking that thought loose with another gulp of champagne, Solomon continues on, thinking he’ll make for the kitchen next, if he can find his way.

He has just reached the end of his third identical corridor when he hears a muffled noise, and fancies he can smell cigarette smoke. It might be Fitzjames, so he follows it into a large open room with three small beds inside, covered with white sheets. This must be the nursery; everything is covered over except for a tall wardrobe beside the window. Standing very still Solomon listens carefully. The moonlight coming in the window turns the room pale blue and fills every corner with shadows which send a chill up his back. He is just about to turn away when the wardrobe door creaks open, and Phoebe’s white face appears.

She smiles broadly at him, and eagerly gestures for him to enter. He is the first to find her, he realises with a latent glimmer of pride. He climbs into the broad, hollow cabinet and she closes the door, enveloping them in complete darkness. Fortunately the wardrobe is large, and tall enough for him to stand upright.

“Solomon, darling, I’ve been dying to get you alone,” she whispers, pressing her fingers against his arm again.

“Er, have you?” 

“Mm, yes, of course,” she laugh breathily, and he thinks he can make out the shape of her as his eyes adjust, “--now, that drawing of the diving boy,”

“Dylan.”

“That’s it - would you say that’s your usual style for statues that size?” She’s still whispering, but her manner is no longer teasing. She is genuinely inquisitive, almost business-like.

“I’ve never made a statue that size - not of my own design, not in bronze. Only stone.”

“Interesting. But you have some experience with sculpture?”

“In stone, like I said. I whittle sometimes. Just little figures. Toys for the kids, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, you have children?” She leans away from him, her hand on his arm pausing its stroking.

“My niece and nephew, I meant.”

“Ah, lovely,” he hears the smile on her voice. “I’d certainly like to see some examples. Have you any?”

“At my workshop in the village… but they are only animals and little fancies.”

“Don’t be modest darling, it’s too tiresome. Listen here, my father dabbles in the art business - only a few smaller galleries, auctions, a spot of dealing on the weekends, you know, keeps him busy. As an emerging artist, perhaps I could make some introductions? If you came to London...”

“I don't think so. As I say, I have only made trifling things. This statue will be--”

"The statue, exactly! It's exceptional, there's nothing like it on the market, and yet it feels so… familiar. Earthy - pastoral, but sensual. If the rest of your work is like that, then you'll cause a real stir, I know it. Let's talk about it tomorrow, eh darling? You can take me to your workshop."

“Well I don’t…” he can’t imagine what the gossip will be like if a lady like Miss Harper-Brown comes to visit next. 

“It’s settled,” she says pleasantly. They do have a way of walking all over you, Solomon thinks. There’s never any stopping them. “Have you played Sardines before?” Phoebe asks, her sweet breath on his neck. She is a good deal shorter than him, her hair brushes his cheek lightly, and he can smell her perfume.

“I haven’t,” he steps back to give her some space, the bottom of the wardrobe creaks perilously.

“We used to play it when we were young - my sister and I, whenever there was a party and boys were visiting.” She inches towards him again. Her tin breastplate clinks against his belt buckle.

“I see,” he says. 

“You can get up to all sorts without Nanny knowing, in a tight dark spot.”

He hasn’t a response to that, struck dumb when he feels her knee nudge the inside of his thigh and a hand on his shoulder. “Steady on,” he says, unbalanced, knocking into the door, “I’ll fall out.”

“Oh dear,” Phoebe sighs, “I was so sure when you couldn't stop staring at Miss Tarasova's tits, but I fear I was wrong. You’re another Oscar Wilde type, aren’t you?”

“No!” Solomon says immediately, without thinking.

“I don’t mind at all if you are,” she whispers, her fingers still caressing his arm from elbow to shoulder, “we all find you dreadfully mysterious, you know, it’s driving Guppy wild not knowing where you fit in.”

“Fit in?”

“With James, I mean,” she explains, “you know how secretive he can be about his-- ”

“I say, who’s in there?” A voice comes from the room outside. 

“Blast,” she half laughs, half whispers, then knocks open the door with her elbow.

It is Fitzjames, which ought to be a relief. His dress appears greyish brown in the low light, and his hair black as Phoebe’s. As the doors of the wardrobe fall open he looks at them both, staring pointedly at Solomon’s arm, which Phoebe is still clutching. 

“Good show, Fitz,” she whispers, “you found us. In you get, then!”

James looks at Solomon with narrowed eyes before climbing in, huffing haughtily as he does: “don’t you think this is rather an obvious place to hide?” 

He squeezes himself between Phoebe and Solomon, so that she has to let him go finally. Solomon takes a deliberate step back again, his shoulders hitting the wooden panel.

“Not when everyone’s so sloshed,” Phoebe answers, “if Dundy ever finds us I’ll eat my hat.”

“Hm.” James replies.

“I was just telling Solomon here about daddy, and how he might--”

“--we’ll be found if you keep chattering away like that,” he hisses at her. “Sh.”

An uncomfortable silence descends, and Phoebe doesn’t say another word. It begins to grow quite warm in the enclosed space, and Solomon wishes he had a bit more room, or could at least remove his jacket. Fitzjames’ stands very straight, and pulls away quickly when their knees bump. Solomon would like to speak with him alone - he feels there is an explanation owing, but he is too muddle headed to keep up. He had only been trying to play along, and when all was said and done Miss Harper-Brown had been very gracious.

They are soon joined by Natasha, who is small enough to jump inside and stand back to back with Phoebe, and then Charlewood, who is much too big, but manages to contort himself somehow and slide between James and Solomon. 

Guppy and Giacomo find them next - which is cheating, Solomon thinks, otherwise he’d have paired up with Fitzjames, and everything would still be easy between them. Guppy has removed his wig, revealing a head of dark hair, trimmed short and receding at the temples. Giacomo’s lace cravat has been misplaced, the buttons on his jacket are loose and the lipstick wiped from both their mouths.

“What took you two so long?” Phoebe finally speaks, the teasing lilt returned to her voice.

“We were being thorough,” Guppy replies, raising his chin, and Giacomo covers his mouth to stop himself laughing. “Is the game finished?”

“Henry has not found us,” Natasha says, muffled somewhere at the back of the wardrobe.

“Well, make way, then.” Both men struggle to get in, the current inhabitants of the cupboard doing their best to squeeze against each other.

“I say, Jim,” Charlewood whispers, slurring, “what do you say we swap about? If I can… and you… ah, there…” 

This maneuver seems to have achieved nothing more than increasing his proximity to Phoebe, who he squeezes at the waist, eliciting a squeal.

“Hush!” James says again, now backed into Solomon and unable to avoid touching him. 

The seven of them miraculously manage to get the doors closed, though there is hardly room to breathe and sweat springs up on the back of Solomon’s neck. James is pressed flush against him, and he hopes he doesn’t crease the dress, what with the fabric being so thin. The back is cut very low, and the twinkling gold straps are only half an inch from Tozer’s face - if he wanted to he could unfasten them with his teeth.

Realising this is probably not a thought he ought to be having under these circumstances, he shifts, trying to turn his head away, which seems to startle Fitzjames, who turns at the same time, the back of his head colliding with Solomon’s nose. 

“Ah!” Solomon curses.

“Sorry!” James whispers, unable to move.

“Fine, fine,” Solomon shifts again, freeing a hand and placing it on James’s hip. He is warm too, his skin blazing beneath the loose silk. Solomon can’t help stroking him there, thumb moving soft circles out of a thoughtless habit, and distracts himself from this perplexing and increasingly uncomfortable game.

Fortunately they needn’t wait too much longer - their final party member can soon be heard strolling the hall outside, drunk and rambling loudly to himself.

“I say, you’re all awfully good at this, chaps,” Le Vesconte muses, “terribly sorry I’m putting on such a poor show.”

“Darling man,” Natasha whispers fondly from her corner. 

“Somebody make a noise, for goodness’ sake,” Guppy whispers, “my foot’s gone to sleep.”

Solomon kicks the back of the wardrobe, causing it to shudder and everyone inside holds their breath. Le Vesconte enters the room and promptly bumps into something, cursing loudly.

“I certainly hope you are all in that wardrobe,” he says, “I’m gasping for another drink.”

* * *

Thankfully there are no more games after that - but the party is by no means finished. It is well after midnight when the roller skates are pulled out, and everyone removes to the ballroom. Of all the rooms he has passed through this evening, the this one is the most astounding to Solomon - every inch of it is lavishly decorated in gold and red velvet, the beautiful ash floor has been polished recently, and there are mirrors hanging at either end, so that it seems to go on and on forever. He reminds himself that he is drunk, and tries not to gawp, being more susceptible to the mysterious than usual.

The clangorous rumble of the skates on the lovely wooden floor is startling, a din which echoes through the room and rattles the crystals in the chandeliers. Fitzjames, Le Vesconte and Charlewood seem not to care and charge about the floor in endless laps, hooting and yelling at each other as they pass. James’ short skirt gathers up about his thighs, revealing his impossibly long stride and the black straps of his suspenders as he bends forward and kicks out, fixing his entire attitude on besting his two friends. Le Vesconte has a great deal of trouble with his own billowing trousers, and Charlewood’s cape whips out behind him like the devil himself. 

“Who needs the ballet, eh Natasha?” Phoebe elbows the tiny woman.

“They are always doing this? Competing together?” Natasha asks.

“I’m afraid so,” Guppy yawns. 

The drinks trolley has been pushed into the ballroom too, and Tozer goes to fill a glass with ice, his head spinning and his good sense waning.

“At least pour some gin on it,” Giacomo laughs, coming to join him and pointing at the bottle. Solomon shakes his head,

“I shall never survive the walk home.”

“Oh, you are not staying here?” The young Italian blinks at him slowly with beautiful dark eyes. “That would be a pity - do not mind  _ Gah-ppy _ , he is always cruel to people he doesn’t know.”

That doesn’t seem very fair to Solomon, but he supposes nothing is ever about one thing. Besides, Guppy is not the reason he’s leaving.

“I have to go home,” Solomon says, swaying slightly, rocking on his heels, “I’ll be missed at Sunday service.”

Giacomo gives him a look of confusion.

“Church,” Solomon says, gesturing and almost tipping out his ice.

“Oh!” Giacomo begins to giggle, “how funny you are, Solomon.”

That is an odd response, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to question why. He just laughs back and nods, and thinks  _ I am a funny fellow, aren’t I? _

A thunderous crash demands everyone’s attention, and there are Le Vesconte and Charlewood lying in a pile on the floor at the far end of the ballroom. 

“Fitz you villain!” Charlewood roars, his devil-horns askew, “you pulled on my cloak!”

“We never set rules!” James insists, skidding to a halt having completed the lap. His colour is high again, he is panting and his face full of fun. Solomon feels very drunk and stupid and fond. 

“I demand a re-match!” Le Vesconte cries from the floor, heaving himself up.

“More fool you,” Charlewood says, already unbuckling his skates, “I’m for another drink.”

“Henry my sweet,” Natasha calls from the other side of the room, “I saw a piano in the parlour, you must play for me.”

“Oh, yes,” Phoebe sings out, “let’s have a dance.”

“Go on ahead of us, ladies,” Le Vesconte insists, now on his feet, rolling up his baggy trouser legs to reveal pale skinny ankles, which he seems to think will gain him an advantage. “I shall be with you once I’ve thrashed this cheating cad!”

With that the party separates. Unable to bear the noise of another race, and far too inebriated to make conversation in the parlour, Solomon begs off both and instead goes outside, through the wide french windows and onto the sandstone patio in front of the lawn.

He sighs softly to himself as he shuts the doors behind him, putting a lid on all of the noise and heat and brightness inside. The lawn stretches out into the cool night before him, all the way down to the coppice of trees that surround the lakehouse, which he can barely make out through the darkness. It is as perfect a night as it had been an evening. The sky is clear and peppered with a hundred thousand stars; distant needle pricks of light which make him feel both spectacular and insignificant. 

Closer to Earth, bats swoop low across the gardens, he hears the cries of owls hunting for prey. Solomon breathes in the lovely air and looks up at the fine lights in the sky as moles plough through the soil below and foxes creep through the underbrush at the bottom of the hill. He feels as much a part of this place and this land as they are; a natural creature, coming to life.

Seven years ago he had been in another place, and he had thought he might never see England again, let alone his home. A fierce terror grips him, as it does sometimes, and he wills it back, chewing on some of the ice in his cup to shock the grim memory into submission. 

In time, the door behind him opens, and he doesn’t need to turn around to recognise the footfall.

"Good evening,” James says, merrily, as though they are meeting by chance. Wouldn’t that be nice, Solomon thinks, to go to a party and make a friend like Fitzjames. “What are you doing out here?"

“Thinking thoughts,” Solomon replies, watching the blue and black landscape peacefully while James lights a cigarette and offers it to him.

“Enjoying the quiet, I suspect,” he’s still short of breath from the race, bright with exertion. 

Solomon chuckles, inhaling smoke, “perhaps.”

“Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“It has been a very strange evening. But yes, I think I have.”

“Glad to hear it,” James smiles. "Goodness, would you look at those stars! One tends to forget about them, living in a city.”

“Don't have stars in London?” Solomon wouldn’t be surprised; it sounds a very topsy turvy place.

“No, no, they do, only… well with the street lamps always burning. And there is so much happening on the ground I suppose one just forgets to look.”

“I could see that,” Solomon says amicably. 

They are quiet for a moment, just smoking, and then James looks at him again, “Awfully sorry about the way Guppy behaved at supper. He says the most caustic things sometimes I know, but he isn't always… I think it's a kind of jealousy he has. A kind of pain.”

“I know it is,” Solomon replies. “Anyway, don't think on it, I shan’t.”

“Jolly good of you.”

"I was just thinking…" he doesn't know what he's getting into, or why it must come out now. It's the drink, the uncommon feelings he has experienced this evening, the distance from the village, the lights of fairyland.

“Yes?" James’ face glows in the ember of his cigarette, the same colour as his dress. 

“I was thinking,” Solomon says, “about France.”

James sucks sharply on his cigarette, but doesn’t speak. Solomon continues, feeling - as drunks often do - that if he doesn’t speak now then the time might never come again. 

“When they shipped us over there,” he begins, steadied by the warm hazy tobacco fog, “after all the shuttling about and before all that endless bloody marching, when we first arrived. I remember thinking - it's beautiful country, this. I'd never been anywhere before, and it never occurred to me I might.” He looks down at the hillside, the lake in the moonlight, “beautiful country. Years, we were there. And by the time we left it - the  _ way _ we left it. Torn up, all the life smashed out. When I came back here, and saw the hills again, green as ever - I thought, I don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve any of it, after that mess.”

He's amazed by himself when he's finished, and then ashamed. He oughtn’t to say so much. “I’m drunk,” he says, by way of apology. “Raving.” 

James doesn’t say anything, and Solomon is glad. They stand quietly on the patio together, and are of the same mind.

He shouldn’t stay, it wouldn’t make sense. Tomorrow is Sunday, and he cannot possibly drink any more; already his head is beginning to throb. Lydia would tell him he ought to go to bed, go home, sleep it all off. But the light behind him is pouring out onto the lawn, and joyful music begins to play in a distant part of the house, inviting him back. James is warm and solid beside him, and he doesn't want to walk out into the night alone, cross those dark silent fields leaving all of the fine things behind. 

"Shall we go back in?" 

He turns to James with a smile. 

* * *

Mr Le Vesconte certainly has a talent for music which far exceeds his skill at sardines or roller skates, and is playing a wonderful lively tune when James and Solomon return to the celebrations. Charlewood and Phoebe are dancing energetically together, and clearly having an excellent time of it. She has cast off her breastplate and is twirling about in her silver slip. She throws Solomon a saucy wink as he passes. Likewise, Natasha and Giacomo have paired up, and are moving in perfect time with the music. Giacomo’s wig is long gone, revealing a mass of dark curls, and Natasha’s scandalous beaded dress is no longer too much of a distraction, beautiful as she looks.

James sits on the sofa, and after a few moments Tozer joins him, feeling foolish standing still while the rest of them dance so well. Guppy has taken the armchair and eyes them both.

“Dundy said you tied,” he says.

“Hm?” Fitzjames yawns.

“The race.”

“He would say that,” James snaps open his silver case and finds it empty.

“Here,” Guppy passes him a cigarette, “you smoke like a damned chimney these days, Fitz - doesn’t the country air agree with you?”

“That must be it,” he laughs joylessly, “I’m pining for the glorious London smog.”

“Did Phoebe really say that you were giving up your painting?”

“What? Well. Hardly any reason to do it anymore.”

Solomon doesn’t speak, because it doesn’t feel like his place, but it troubles him to hear that. If he was a man of leisure as Fitzjames is now he thinks he would do nothing but make sculptures and pictures all day. 

“What do you think of Giacomo?” Guppy is asking now. “Sweet boy, no?”

“Too sweet for you. Whatever does your mother say?”

“Oh, we ignore her, mostly. She thinks he is some wealthy European visiting London who happens to be staying with us. The old bat’s going senile, it shouldn’t matter much longer.”

“You are living together, then?”

“I tried to set him up in a little flat, but he wouldn’t have it. Said that if I truly loved him then I would want him close all the time. Really, the way he wept over it, anyone would have been moved to pity.”

“And do you?” James raises his head, curiously, “truly love him?”

“Really, Fitz, what a question,” Guppy shakes his head and tuts, as though James asked him something disgusting. 

Le Vesconte changes his tune and begins to sing now. He has a pleasant voice. Tozer sinks down into the vast settee, his head feeling heavy and nodding as he watches Giacomo come trotting over to convince Guppy up to dance. Natasha sits on the piano stool, watching the dancing and leaning dreamily against Le Vesconte's shoulder with a faraway smile.

“ _ Was it summer, when I met you? Was it underneath the moon… _ ”

Charlewood and Phoebe dance more closely, falling into a neat foxtrot. He keeps trying to kiss her, and she ducks her head, laughing at his clumsy attempts. Solomon reckons this must be a regular game for them; suddenly this is no different from the harvest festival, or any village wedding. 

“ _ Pardon me, pretty baby - is it yes? Is it no? Is it maybe? Pardon me… _ ”

Guppy and Giacomo make a more distracting pair. Solomon has an unclear memory of men dancing together in the army - it was all for fun, being that there were no women about everyone thought it would be a good joke. It did seem ridiculous, he thinks, both of them in trousers with moustaches, simpering and stumbling, unable to agree who was leading who. The scene before him now doesn’t feel the same way. Nobody is laughing, and although they are still quite ridiculously dressed Solomon doesn’t find it amusing either.

He watches them dazedly, slouching further down the sofa as he does, thinking how natural they look, how their arms fit and their feet weave in and out of each other without any missteps. At one point Giacomo smiles at Guppy, and Guppy kisses him. Solomon blinks, a strange shiver in his gut. _Oscar Wilde_ _types_ , he thinks. He’s never given it a great deal of thought.

Turning to look at James, Solomon finds him watching the party with steady eyes and a small smile. Perhaps he misses them when they aren’t here, Solomon thinks. He knows that he will find things awfully quiet in Culswen after tonight. A yawn wracks him then, and a glance at the clock over the fireplace tells him it is almost three o’clock in the morning. Overcome with drowsiness and tired of feeling uncomfortable, Solomon shifts himself and lies down across the sofa cushions, resting his head in James’ lap. The warm silk is bliss against his cheek.

James makes a small sound of surprise, glancing down at him.

“Do you remember,” Solomon asks him, yawning, “the first time you got me drunk?”

“Of course I do,” James laughs, resting a hand on his neck, playing with the curls there. “We had a lovely time.”

“Mm,” Solomon closes his eyes.

James bends over and kisses his temple, “you’ll stay the night, won’t you?” he asks, very softly.

“D’you want me to?” Tozer murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Hm,” he sighs, and closes his eyes again.

Perhaps he dozes off for a while after that, because the next thing he knows he is being pushed and dragged up the sweeping staircase, Le Vesconte still bellowing out a song behind them. 

Two flights up, left at the top, fourth door on the right.

"I've a headache from all that witches brew," he complains, stumbling into the room and struggling to get out of his boots, tripping over them as he staggers to the bed. 

"You get used to it,” James promises, “were those your first cocktails?"

“Had absinthe once in the army.”

“Oh dear, how did that turn out?”

“Don’t remember,” he mumbles. “Fucking awful the next day.”

He wants to sleep, he doesn’t care where he is. He collapses into the bed and sighs. Wandering between rooms for hours is more tiring than he thought it would be; give him a cottage any day. He pulls at his clothes, the room spinning all around him. He can hear shrieks of laughter coming from one of the other rooms, and the pale light of dawn is rising through the cracks in the curtains. 

“Here we are,” Fitzjames’ voice. A cool flannel is placed on Solomon’s forehead and he could cry from the sweet relief of it. “Sleep as long as you like,” James says, his voice so close it might be inside Solomon’s head. “There’s nowhere else you need to be.”

His weight leaves the bed as he gets up and the whole frame groans. Solomon rolls his shoulders against the hard, uneven mattress and grunts.

“I’m sorry to tell you,” he mumbles, “but this is the most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in a lot of beds, have you?” Fitzjames replies, a grin on his voice. 

Solomon chuckles stupidly and tries rolling onto his side, “wouldn’t you like to know.” 

He pries open his eyes to watch James undress, moving about the room with smooth elegance which makes Solomon think he cannot be drunk at all. He pulls the dress up over his head, shaking it out carefully and returning it to its hanger, which he hooks over the dressing screen. He is wearing a black satin girdle, with the suspender belt clipped neatly around his waist, over his drawers. The straps pull and tug at his sheer stockings as he crosses the room. Solomon groans again.

“Wish I wasn’t so pissed.”

“I’m sorry,” James throws him a sympathetic smile, “you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“That’s a lie.” Solomon snorts, “anyway, I don’t mean it that way. I mean I wish I wasn’t too drunk for a go around - fancy you in those stockings.”

“Oh,” James looks at him again, and Solomon wishes Phoebe was here to see him blush. 

“If I may say so,” he adds, realising how careless he is being. 

“Of course you may,” James unclips the belt and then rolls down the stockings. Soon enough he climbs into bed, without a stitch on. He strokes Solomon’s hair lightly and lies close against him, and the world shrinks down to a very quiet warm place. 

When Tozer is almost asleep, Fitzjames whispers, “...I’ve a whole drawer full of stockings, you know.”

“Tart,” Tozer chuckles, throwing an arm across him and burying his face in his neck.

If Fitzjames replies to that, it does not filter through, Solomon has drifted away with his own particular fancies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Coming soon: A CLOSE SHAVE - JAMES HAS EMOTIONS - SCAFFOLDING


	6. A walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotion rears its ugly head. 
> 
> A thousand blessings upon the head of kt_fairy <3

_ Happy the man whose wish and care _

_ A few paternal acres bound, _

_ Content to breathe his native air _

_ In his own ground. _

He leaves the door to his little en suite bathroom ajar so that the steam from the shower can escape and give the fog time to evaporate from the mirror. The biting citrus scent of  _ Acqua di Parma Colonia _ wafts into the bedroom as he enters, treading gingerly across the uneven floorboards in bare feet as he towels his hair dry. 

Grey condensation gathers in the corners of the window panes. The rooms at Cadwallen Hoo are stuffy, built to trap heat in the bleak depths of winter, but Bridgens has got into the habit of setting the bedroom windows open an inch when he brings up James’ coffee in the morning, so the moisture ought to clear soon enough. The indistinct noises of chatter and labour drift up from the grounds, where workmen have been toiling away since sunrise. He can hear the dull thud of hammers, and the sharp crack of a chisel, wheelbarrows crunching over the driveway gravel and a man somewhere close to the house whistling a lively tune.

It ought to feel invigorating, or at least worth waking up for - renovations on the house are finally underway; Cadwallen Hoo’s lumbering carcass is being hauled into the twentieth century, with only the faintest sigh of protest. James even had a designer visit for an afternoon shortly after his birthday guests left, and they had a frustrating conversation about preservation and the potentially dreadful consequences of doing away with any traditional features before James grew impatient and decided he didn’t care for anyone else’s opinion; he would plan and orchestrate the entire thing himself. 

The parlour, the study and the library have been stripped of that gauche red silk wallpaper already, the furniture cleared out and valued, and by the end of the week he hopes to begin painting. (Choosing the colour has been something of a problem, the light in each room seems to change in aspect and temperature every time he revisits the space - but this morning he is sure he has decided on a soft paisley green over the duck egg blue he initially planned.)

The haste with which he is undertaking this enterprise means he has needed to hire more men from the village to work on several projects at once - the leaky windows now dealt with, they found that the brick at the back of the house needed repointing, and there has been so much which needs to be moved or put away or carried upstairs. Bridgens manages all of this coming and going with his usual stalwart competence, frequently assisted by Mr Peglar, who is the head gardener and knows the house well. It’s no minor feat; at least twenty men pass through every day, the estate has not been so busy for decades. 

Of course, planning can only take up so much time. Up in his master bedroom with its bare walls and worm-riddled furniture, James finds himself very much removed from all the activity. He can’t very well go down and join in, as much as there are plenty of parts of the house he should very much like to take a hammer and chisel to. He seems to be the only person on the estate - in the whole village - who is standing completely still.

Yawning, still patting at himself vaguely with his towel, James sorts lazily through the suits hanging in his wardrobe. It’s another warm, sunny day, so linen or cotton, perhaps, in a lighter shade. There isn’t anything really to dress for; he wonders whether anyone will even notice if he wears something out of season. He selects a tan coloured jacket and trousers and hangs them neatly over the dressing screen. He will mull the tie and pocket square over for a little longer. 

He glances at the bed as he passes it. Bridgens must have made it while James was in the shower - yes, he has taken away the coffee pot and tray, too. The dull burgundy counterpane has been straightened and smoothed out and turned carefully over the pillows so that it looks every inch the museum piece it really is. He really ought to get the creaking old thing replaced. Solomon had been right on the night of the party; it’s a ghastly, uncomfortable bed. Though it seemed all complaints were forgotten the next morning, when Solomon woke up, rolled over with a grin, kissed the nape of James’ neck and cheerfully fucked him into the mattress. 

James feels a twinge of excitement in his middle at the memory, swiftly followed by a heavy, sinking sense of disappointment. 

He thinks he could be forgiven for having assumed that the party should have been some kind of a turning point in their friendship, but apparently not, for he has barely seen Solomon since - only in passing and only during work hours. He did walk down to the village once, about a week ago, but found the workshop closed, and couldn’t find a reason to go into The Ship. 

He doesn’t particularly like to think of Solomon in there, in that dingy low ceilinged tavern, oil staining the ceilings, reeking of beer and soot and earth. Really, James doesn’t see why he should have to go looking in the first place. He had thought that once Solomon had been inside the house for a night he might warm to the idea of coming up more often, the way he used to when they were young. It would be even better; they wouldn’t have to stay out of anyone’s way. He quite understood Tozer’s initial reticence, but surely after the party…

“Thank you for inviting me,” he’d said while dressing the next morning, “I’ve never had an evening like it - good as a holiday." He grinned at the rumpled bed sheets before he left.

A holiday - of course that was all it would ever be, for Tozer. A sparkling interlude, thoroughly enjoyed and satisfactorily ended. He would walk back down the hill into his ordinary life where everything would be the same as it ever was. 

It was a ridiculous plan trying to convince Solomon, James realises now, full of flaws. It cheapened them both - him behaving like some fairy queen, luring mortal men into his realm; trapping them with a fine meal and pretty sights. He ought to remember that Solomon is far too self-possessed, it is one of the fine things about him. The dresses, for example, James' last great secret; that had all been water off a duck's back to Solomon. He'd even taken Guppy in his stride - and what's more he'd had the remarkable poise to put him in his place, a thing that had taken James years to succeed at. 

Solomon cannot ever be swayed or shaken; he simply treads his own singular and steady course, taking his enjoyment as it comes to him, but never affecting change. He is even and measured in all things, including their friendship. 

It isn’t worth mooning over now. James straightens, turning away from the bed and returning to the bathroom, closing the door behind himself and using his damp towel to wipe the mirror. 

In his defence, the bed wasn’t the reason he chose the room in the first place; rather it was the little adjoining bathroom, which is a great convenience and surprisingly modern. Compared to the rest of his quarters James finds the cool white tile quite tolerable in its sparse simplicity. The taps and fixtures are brass and the claw-footed porcelain bathtub wonderfully deep. 

Tossing the towel into the laundry basket, James opens his gold plated Gillette shaving case, a Christmas gift that Guppy had given after the war ended. (Guppy spent most of the war in Colorado, of all places, ostensibly keeping an eye on his father’s oil concern.) It’s a beautiful set, every item gleams and has a comforting weight to it.  _ What’s life without a little luxury? _ Guppy had written on the card, and now, six years after the war, James supposes he can see the amusing side.

He takes great pleasure in setting everything up, laying it all out neatly on the marble countertop and then gently twisting the soft bristles of the badger hair brush into his shaving soap. Gazing intently at his reflection, James works the brush over his face in soft short circles, lifting his chin and tilting his head back to lather his jaw and neck.

Shaving is an enjoyable affair when one has time for it - and James has time for absolutely anything these days. There is something gratifying about the care which must be taken over it; the gentle handling of one’s own body, so rarely encouraged of men. He runs the blade over the smooth plains of his face, gathering soft white foam and leaving behind tender pink skin. The teeth of the razor slide dangerously close and his cheeks are already tingling when he lathers up again for his second pass. 

Solomon doesn’t shave at all, he keeps a pair of nearly blunt scissors by his wash basin to trim his beard, and James thinks he probably uses them for his fingernails too. Some people just wear unfussiness better, he supposes. They’re becoming rusty, the scissors, James remembers noticing it last time he was there. That was how long - three weeks ago? A month?

He hopes Solomon doesn’t hold any hard feelings about Guppy - only there could  _ never _ be an appropriate or auspicious time to bring up Guppy; and while James was very grateful to him and bore a certain kind of love for him for a number of reasons, was also something of a liberty-taker when it came to mixed company. Besides, James’ friendship with Solomon and his torrid relationship with Guppy were barely comparable.

Finished shaving, he wipes the rake marks away with his damp towel and splashes on aftershave, relishing the enlivening astringency which makes his eyes burn.

He has a pair of scissors going spare somewhere - but of course gifts are out of the question when it comes to Solomon, even ones so small as that. James cannot see where the contention lies in something so harmless - for example, he offered Bridgens first pick of all the books in the house, and Bridgens certainly did not take it as an affront to his pride. A man ought to be able to lavish gifts upon his lover, if he chooses to. 

_ Lover _ ! That is  _ exactly _ the problem, he catches himself out - when has James ever thought about Solomon like that!

It was Dundy who turned his head this way; made him begin to consider that there might be something more to gain. He’d been perfectly happy to go on as they were; old friends,  _ dear _ friends, who enjoyed each other's bodies - ‘into the bargain’, as Solomon might put it. There had never been a question of anything else, until Dundy brought it up on his first visit.

Since then James has given it far too much thought; has scrutinised his dealings with Solomon keenly for something which likely isn’t there, and never has been. Things were never complicated between them, ever, and damn Dundy for making them so. 

And yet. Whatever affection they had - and James does not  _ deny _ affection, inasmuch as a friendship as long as theirs may engender fond good feeling and soft familiarity - whatever strange new association they have been carefully piling up between each other did seem almost real at James’ party. Real enough to touch; real enough to feel they were both part of the same story.

In some moments Solomon had been warm, tender - shades of the soft natured youth he'd been. But then, James reminds himself, he had also groped Phoebe in a cupboard and spent all night sending furtive glances in the divine Miss Tarasova’s direction. They’d all been shockingly drunk, of course; everybody had misbehaved in some way or another, that was simply the hallmark of a good party.

It had surprised him that Tozer brought up the war like that - James hardly ever heard it spoken about in so many words. The poets had their say, of course, and the artists; and everybody seemed content that this was quite enough, dwelling on it more than that would not be proper. One of the benefits of it being a national grief, James supposes; a great shared pain which everybody understands, and therefore nobody need address; an enormous exercise in the strength of British discretion. 

How very like Solomon to offer up his pain like that, held out in his palm like an acorn or a marble, naive and unpretentious. In the same way, Solomon has always reached out for James with open arms, has returned every kiss and caress with eager good humour, as though these things are nothing at all; weightless. He is always as you find him, and it is utterly infuriating.

“He’s not really  _ our _ sort of person,” Guppy declared over breakfast. “Though I suppose he’s harmless.”

They were watching Solomon walk away across the lawn through the french windows, Phoebe trotting along beside him, her voice carrying just enough to glance off the glass. James, still quietly aching from Tozer’s attentions that morning, simply sipped at his coffee and yawned. 

“What’s all this?  _ Our _ sort of person?” Charlewood scoffed, “I’d certainly like to know the criteria, Guppy, old chap. What sort of persons are we, exactly?”

“Hardly persons at all,” Guppy sniffed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “merely a collection of poor wretched souls - lost to decency.”

James snorted with laughter, and Guppy lowered his napkin, pleased with himself. 

“Ah, so we agree that Mr Tozer is decent, at least,” Dundy commented, tucking into his kippers as Bridgens arrived with a fresh pot of coffee, and began to refill each cup.

“He is broad minded, as the English like to say,” Natasha put in, her voice rather hoarse, “and handsome.”

“ _ Rather _ ,” Giacomo grinned.

“As I said,” Guppy turned up his nose once more, “perfectly splendid fellow, but where on  _ earth _ would you take him?” 

“More to the point, where has he taken young Phoebe?” Charlewood said, craning his neck to peer through the windows as Solomon and Phoebe disappeared downhill, out of sight.

“To the village, I believe,” Guppy provides, “our dear girl has decided to make a project of James’ bit of rough.”

“Oh, come on, Guppy,” Dundy chortled, eyes on his plate, knife and fork clacking up and down like machinery, “you can’t pretend he doesn’t have a gift, you saw the drawing.”

The drawing, James remembers - the statue design of Dylan ail don, surely that is evidence of something? Something beyond boyish devotion or even adolescent passions - an affinity, a kind of fulfillment. They got close enough to it, sometimes, he was sure.

Damn Dundy, and damn this hideous house, James grumbles inwardly as he packs away his shaving kit and attends to his hair next, unscrewing his jar of pomade. Nothing like this distracted him in London; he hadn’t been seeking anything more meaningful than a lively evening and a handsome partner. 

Phoebe’s trip to Solomon’s workshop appeared to have been uneventful - or at least without catastrophe as far as James was concerned. She returned shortly before lunch, red in the face from the uphill climb, but still made up and unruffled, sleek as ever. “He’s a gem,” she gushed - earnestness was contagious around Solomon - “an undiscovered genius, I’m quite sure. Daddy will love him, and the Bloomsbury set will  _ hate _ him, just you wait.”

Solomon’s view on the matter came from a slightly different perspective.

“Came all the way down to the village in trousers, she did,” he’d chuckled when James casually enquired, a few days later, “vicar’s wife saw her. Don’t think anyone in Culswen will forget Miss Harper-Brown in a hurry.”

“But what about your art?”

“What, the whittling? She liked it, I think. Asked for more. Said I would if I had time.”

That conversation was at least three weeks ago. Solomon is up at the house almost every day for the brickwork, along with other renovations - but they have had no time alone at all, and Solomon only comes inside the house if his work demands it. James supposes that must be his own fault too, being Tozer’s employer. 

Hair tidied and combed, he leaves the bathroom finally and dresses. He eyes his camera, the birthday gift from Phoebe which has been sitting on top of his chest of drawers for weeks. He has barely used it, besides some larking about with Dundy. Might as well take it out today, he thinks, while the light is still fair. A stroll around the grounds and take a few pictures before lunch. 

James settles on a pale blue cravat and handkerchief, which only starts him re-thinking the colour for the parlour. Perhaps it wasn’t traditionalism that stopped his father re-decorating, he thinks, perhaps it was simply too many decisions to make. He is just lacing up his shoes when there is a light knock at the door, and Bridgens enters.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Bridgens. Just coming down,” James straightens up and slips into his jacket.

“Very good sir - you have a visitor.”

“I do?”

“Yes, sir, Reverend Irving, from the village.”

“Did we have something arranged?” James frowns, trying to recall what state of madness would have had him inviting the vicar up for a visit.

“No, I believe he has just stopped by on the off chance. I have shown him into the parlour, sir, but I did tell him you might be otherwise engaged,” Bridgens says most of this from the bathroom, where he collects up James’ damp towels and performs a cursory wipe down of the countertop and sink.

“Very good,” James agrees, straightening his collar. “I’d better see him, then.”

“I’ll bring tea through presently.”

“Thank you, Bridgens,” James says, collecting up his camera and leaving the room. As he does, something occurs to him and he stops, a hand on the doorframe, “Bridgens?”

“Yes, sir?”

“No biscuits, eh? Best to keep it a brief visit, I think.”

“As you wish, sir,” Bridgens nods, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He walks quickly through the long corridors and nimbly down the stairs, not quite rushing, but unexpectedly keen to see the vicar, who despite his faults is one of the few men in Culswen it is appropriate for him to socialise with. 

The busy noise of work outside gets louder and quieter as he passes each window, and is most noticeable of all on the ground floor, where the large front doors have been left open for convenience. Out in the bright driveway anonymous men pass by, trudging heavily and murmuring between themselves as they carry tools, wheel bricks and heft great bundles wrapped in sackcloth around the house. They all look alike in their dark trousers and calico shirts, soft flat caps pulled low over their faces, some smoking pipes, others with brightly coloured kerchiefs knotted about their necks. Solomon is out there somewhere - most likely halfway up some scaffolding, hammer in hand, shouting down some instruction or other. He seems to James to be the very centre of all the spokes of industry in Culswen. 

He turns left at the foot of the stairs, then stands aside to allow two men to pass, heaving between them the enormous oak credenza from the dining room, which James marked for removal. Phoebe found him a buyer through her contact at Christie’s and he guesses it must already be due for collection. The men carrying it do not look up to acknowledge him, only continue their slow staggering progress, red faced and huffing. The larger of the two is Magnus Manson - James is trying to learn their names. Magnus’ mother was the ‘tween maid before the war, and had married a farmer, if he remembers rightly. 

Finally he passes through into the parlour - a very odd looking room now that the wallpaper has been stripped, leaving the walls bare and startlingly avant-garde looking; pale pink patches of plaster, mountainous swathes of grey damp. The rugs have been rolled away and packaged for sale too, so that the plush chintz settees and armchairs look strangely too small in the enormous echoing room. Still, he thinks the light is much better now; the air feels clearer.

Reverend Irving is sitting upright at the very edge of the sofa cushions, and springs up nervously as James enters. He is a dark featured, handsome man with a permanently grave expression weighing on his heavy brow. He wears the traditional black of the church of England clergy, and tugs at his waistcoat as he extends a pale soft hand for James to shake.

“Lord Gambier,” he says, green eyes darting up and then quickly down at the bare floorboards as he steps haltingly forward, “I hope you will forgive my dropping in uninvited.”

“Not at all,” James smiles broadly, striding forward and clapping his hand, as if he can remedy the anxiousness on Irving’s part with gregariousness on his own. The timbre of his voice echoes through the empty room, making Irving blink as he withdraws his hand. “Please, sit,” James says, lower this time, placing his camera down on a small table beside the nearest armchair.

The young reverend resumes his position, stiff-backed and teetering on the sofa. James has only met him properly once before, shortly before his father’s funeral, about eight months ago. Irving had presented the sermon he had written for the service, along with notes on various other particulars deemed too important for anyone else to deal with, such as flowers and hymns and other nonsense. 

Still somewhat cold with the shock of it all at the time, James had diligently reviewed the service and pronounced it 'fine', and when asked whether there ought to be any special reading, had said no - then in a fit of guilt spent half a night raiding the library in search of a suitable poem. Whether or not his father would have approved of poetry, he did not know. They had rarely made any effort to learn each other's tastes, preferring a polite distance even at the end. When James had arrived at his father's bedside two days before he'd died the old man had said; " _ oh, it is you, Fitzjames. What did you come for? _ ”

Irving made no impression on him then, except that he was fairly young and newly married to a woman who appeared to be his opposite in every possible way. He isn’t from Shropshire, his accent places him much further south, more decidedly and properly ‘English’. 

“No, I must apologise,” the reverend says now, gesturing at the wide windows where the shadows of the men pass back and forth, “I see that you must be extremely busy.”

James could almost laugh. Instead he smiles congenially, pressing the tip of his tongue against his front teeth, “not at all,” he repeats.

They exchange stilted politenesses, James' last hope of finding amicable society in Culswen quickly dissolving before his eyes as he tries desperately to mitigate Irving’s obvious discomfort. Had this man got on with his father, he wondered? People often turned religious as they grew old, and for Lord Gambier faith and tradition were much the same thing. Besides that, who else had he had to talk to after James’ stepmother died? Gambier was not the kind of man to confide in anybody, but who knew what loneliness and frailty had prompted him to reveal to this awkward, gulping vicar. 

Bridgens comes in with the tea - one of the smaller pots - and pours it for them while they sit in silence. James crosses his legs, and then uncrosses them, trying not to glance out of the window in search of diversion. 

“Lord Gambier,” Irving finally says, once Bridgens has left again. “I confess I have an ulterior motive.”

“Is that so?” James asks, waning interest renewed as he blows on his tea to cool it.

“It is,” Irving nods, drinking himself, then setting the cup back down in the saucer. It doesn’t quite land, sitting skewed where the cup has not settled properly into the depression of the dish. James tries to ignore it as Irving continues, “I do not know if you are aware, but one of the young men in your employment is  _ unbaptised _ .”

He says this with stern emphasis, eyebrows knitting together.

“Is he?” James replies distractedly.

“Indeed, sir,” the reverend says. “The man in question has newly arrived in Culswen a month or so ago, and I have only recently been able to make enquiries.”

James hasn’t the faintest idea how he is expected to respond to this, and continues to smile politely and drink his tea, nodding his head slightly to show Irving that he is listening.

“I do not know how long Mr Hickey proposes to stay in the village, but while he is living in the parish, and while he is employed by your estate, then I cannot help but consider him part of my flock.”

“I see,” James sets his own cup down, clearing his throat. “And… does he wish to be baptised?”

“This is precisely my concern,” Irving says, the deep intensity returning to his voice, “it seems he does not. In fact, when I first spoke with him, he…”

James raises an eyebrow, leaning in. Whatever it is, the reverend cannot meet his eye, and the vein in his temple becomes apparent as he glares at the carpet. “...I’m afraid he  _ laughed _ at me.” 

James sits back again, disappointed.  _ Is that all _ . "I see.”

He remembers his own baptism into the Church of England, shortly after having arrived at Cadwallen Hoo, aged five. He hadn’t really known what was going on, not until they brought the old vicar in - his father had thought it more seemly, more discreet to have it done at the house, rather than the church, where a certain amount of ceremony would be expected. James recalls the flick of tepid water, how it tickled, and the vicar's bad breath. He hadn’t felt any difference afterwards, and wasn't treated much differently either.

Irving gives a small shake of his head, looking up again, “I’m sure I needn’t remind you of the moral example the Gambier family has always set for the common people of Culswen.”

“No, quite,” James finds himself saying without knowing what he means by it. “Only… only isn’t it a decision each man must make for himself? That’s rather the position I take, anyway.”

“Of course, of course, ‘ _ the free will of man, moved and excited by God _ ’,” Irving nods keenly, “The will can resist grace if it chooses - but it must be given the choice, do you not think? Mr Hickey must be brought to understand the decision first, and that is the responsibility of the Church. In his case the Church has failed him thus far, and as he is my parishioner it is my failing.”

“Then I suppose you have my blessing to discuss it with him further, if you think it will aid his understanding,” James replies, tired of the topic already and trying to avoid any more theology. “But I am sure neither I nor anyone else in the village will see his lack of salvation as your failure, Reverend.”

“Nevertheless,” Irving says, his moment of fervour receding as quickly as it had come upon him, shoulders sinking in defeat.  _ Good Lord _ , James thinks,  _ no wonder the man laughed _ . 

James raises his cup to his lips again and asks, “how is your wife?”

Thankfully this is just the right topic to dry up the conversation once more, and they exchange one or two more meaningless enquiries and acknowledgements before unanimously giving up on each other.  _ Well _ , James thinks, down to the bitter dregs in his cup,  _ at least now he knows what to expect of me _ . It transpires that Irving has even more on the agenda - the arches in the church are in need of repair, and he is quick to remind James that his father had been a beloved and generous patron of St Werburgh’s. James all but promises to pay for the damn thing, if only to hurry things along.

“I wish you the best with your renovations, Lord Gambier,” Irving says as he gets up to leave. “It is gratifying to think that there might be a family living in this fine old house once again - Mrs Irving talks of little else.” 

“I am not married, Reverend,” James returns, perhaps too curtly.

“No, of course, there’s plenty of time.”

At that moment a bell sounds outside, which apparently signals lunch, for a few seconds later the grandfather clock in the hall begins to chime. The hard sounds of industry are replaced by chatter and merriment as men clamber down from their ladders and cast off their burdens. 

James escorts Irving to the front door and watches him begin the long walk down the yellow driveway. Of course the reverend wouldn’t dream of crossing the lawn, which would have him back in the village in half the time. The men are sitting in the shade of the house, squatting over their midday meals, talking and smoking amongst themselves. A man has come up from town with a beer barrel on the back of his cart and is handing out mugs of warm foaming ale. He looks for Solomon without trying to look too hard, then turns back into the house, collecting his camera on the way.  _ A stroll around the grounds and a few pictures before lunch _ , he reminds himself.

He finds Bridgens rinsing out the teapot in the kitchen, and tells him he’ll eat later, for now he’ll go for a walk, then leaves through the back door. 

* * *

Wandering aimlessly through the rose garden, he takes a few experimental photographs of the sundial, and tries to capture the distant stony cairn of the ice house from the patio. None of it is very inspiring, but he ploughs on and tries to enjoy the exercise ‘without hope or despair’, as somebody once advised him to. 

Inevitably, he decides to aim for the summerhouse. He hasn’t been back since that afternoon with Dundy and Solomon, though he keeps the key on his chain, just in case. He ought to look, anyway; he has put it off too long, and he needs to choose a place for the statue. 

He relishes the opportunity to stretch his legs as he takes the longest route through the gardens, turning back to look at the house while it is still and all of the men are at rest. The scaffolding stands out, black against the pale brick, and the sight pleases him. 

As he follows the line of box hedges, reaching the bottom of the hill, James is surprised by the sight of a young woman, just ahead of him. He doesn’t recognise her - sometimes the workers' wives come up to see them, but this girl is far too young for that. Someone's daughter, perhaps. 

She's tall and skinny, walking with a heavy footed stride, and seems very familiar with the path she is taking across his property. The hem of her navy blue skirt swings a few inches above her boots, turned dark with dew and muddy at the back. Her long hair is braided in two thin plaits like reigns on a pony, and she is carrying something bundled up in a chequered cloth, which she tosses carelessly from hand to hand like a football, even throwing it up in the air to catch in her skirts. When a breeze blows, he’s sure he can hear her whistling.

Intrigued, James raises his camera to snap her, then hangs back a while to see where she goes. Much to his astonishment, she vanishes between the spindly birches which lead to the lake. He wonders briefly whether he really ought to be following her, before reminding himself that if anybody has the right to go wherever they please on this estate, then it is him.

He enters the shady copse a few minutes behind her, following the path through to the clearing. He hears voices as he approaches, and quickly realises who she is.

“You should draw me, Sol,” she is standing by the water’s edge, throwing stones across the surface. Solomon is sitting on the steps of the summerhouse, bent over a pile of loose papers on his knees. His hand is moving rapidly across the sheet.

The door of the summerhouse is closed, kept locked, but James had the gardeners spend a day trimming back the vines and then clearing out the inside to bring the place back to some kind of order. The chimney has been swept and the water closet in the back returned to working order. He hadn’t realised that Solomon had been coming here. Though, of course he has no idea what Solomon does with his time when he is not working - even Dundy knows better than he, for apparently they have spoken on the telephone more than once to arrange everything for the statue. Solomon even gave Dundy the number of The Ship, the only telephone in Culswen.

“It’s awfully jolly,” he explained to James, his voice rattling through the receiver of James’ own phone, in his parlour, “I simply leave word with the chap behind the bar, and he tells Mr Tozer when he comes by in the evening. It’s like a splendid kind of messaging service, I shall have to stop by for a drink and thank Mr Gibson next time I’m in the area.”

“You could always telephone me,” James said, trying not to sound sullen.

“I suggested it, old boy, but it was Tozer’s request. He’s next door to the pub, so I understand it’s convenient.”

Convenience being the object, where Solomon was concerned, James had thought rather acidly.

The girl, Solomon's sister, throws another stone into the lake, shattering the surface and sending a flock of moorhens frantically paddling out of the rushes, clucking furiously.

“Oh yeah?" Solomon replies, eyes on his sketching, "what shall I draw you as? A  _ gwraig annwn _ ?” he asks in neat, earthy Welsh, which takes James by surprise and sends a queer prickle of warmth through his midsection.

She sighs with the beleaguered exasperation of a sibling, “in English, please?”

“A lake maiden.”

“No,” she scowls, looking back at him.

“Ah, pity, you’d make a very pretty sprite,” he returns. He still doesn’t look up from his drawing, but there is a teasing smile on his face which James recognises well. 

“Shut  _ up _ ,” she throws another stone. It lands with a heavy plop, only a few feet away.

“Oi,” he tuts, finally looking up. He tilts his head, “you want to use a flatter pebble.”

“I  _ am _ ,” she tosses her head, sighing again.

He sets aside his work and gets up, crossing the stretch of grass to stand beside her, “hold it like this,” he says, taking up his own stone and showing her. “Then pull back… and flick.”

“I know,” she huffs, “I’ve done it before.”

“Well, then,” he casts his pebble out across the water. It skips four or five times, landing dead centre.

She copies him, and manages two skips - she pulled back too far, in James’ opinion. As Solomon brushes off his hands and turns away from the lake he catches sight of James watching from the line of trees, and squints, raising a hand in tentative greeting.

James swallows and waves back, stepping out into the light, "good afternoon."

"Afternoon," Tozer nods, waiting for him to approach.

The girl turns too, her next stone still clutched in her hand. Her face is more severe than her brother's, but she has his eyes.

“This is Judith,” Solomon nods at her. “Judith, this is Lord Gambier.”

“Jude,” she corrects immediately.

“James. Pleased to meet you,” he holds his hand out to shake. She looks at it incredulously before accepting.

“She’s just brought me my lunch,” Solomon explains. “Finished school for the summer, haven’t you Jude?”

“I’ve only got one year left,” she says to James, “then I’m going to work for the railway.”

“Sounds awfully nice,” he says politely, feeling a little wary himself. 

She laughs, “if you say so.”

He has not met any of Solomon’s siblings, they never came up to the house with him when they were children, he only knows them by name and from snatches of description Solomon has reeled off over the years. Jude must be the youngest. James vaguely remembers Mrs Jakes being pregnant shortly before he left for Cambridge. Mind you, she was almost always pregnant.

“What’s that?” Jude squints at him, nodding at his front. She has her brother’s forward manner.

“It’s my camera,” James holds it up.

“Bit small,” she looks at him skeptically, “they’ve one at school, and it needs two of us to lift it. Keep it in a big wooden box.”

“This is a very new model - it takes film instead of plates. Here, have a look,” he hands it over politely.

She takes it in her large hands, holding it as clumsily as she held Solomon’s lunch.

“Careful,” Solomon hovers, “don’t drop it.”

“Shan’t,” she snatches it away from him, then looks into the viewfinder. “How funny,” she comments. 

“Take a picture if you like,” James offers. “Here, the film is loaded in the bottom, I’ve already set the aperture.”

“The what?” she looks up at him again with a face that is suddenly so like Solomon’s he can’t help smiling. 

“It controls the light. There, look through the little window, and press here when you want to capture something.”

She holds it up to her face, still squinting, and staggers backwards, looking about herself for a good shot, “oi, Sol,” she says, and presses the button as he looks at her.

It will be a dreadful photograph, James expects; the sun was over Solomon’s head, the brightness will burn him out. Still, she’s pleased with herself, and hands the camera back to James.

“Can I see it when it’s finished?”

“Of course.”

“You’d better be off home now, Jude, I’ve some things to discuss with Lord Gambier.”

“Lydia told me to stay until you’d eaten your lunch. All of it.”

“I will.”

She stands with her hands on her hips, watching him, and he gives in with a sigh. He crosses back to the porch of the summerhouse and picks up the bundle sitting beside his sketches, unwrapping it, then holding up a bread roll and biting into it demonstratively. “There,” he says, his mouth full. His fingers are covered in charcoal, leaving distasteful black prints in the crust like patches of mould. 

“Pig,” Judith says. “Fine, I’m off. See you for tea.”

He waves at her, taking a second bite.

“Thanks for letting me look at your camera, Mr Gambier.”

“ _ Lord _ Gambier,” Solomon calls, still chewing.

She rolls her eyes and leaves, disappearing back up the path, between the trees and on her way home.

“Sorry,” Solomon says, swallowing his mouthful and setting down the bread. “She’s bored. Too clever to stay at home all day, Lydia reckons.”

“Quite all right,” James replies, still feeling rather on the back foot. He has never been comfortable with domestic scenes. “Finish your lunch, please.” He eyes the blackened bread and the hunk of cheese beside it. 

Tozer sits down, brushing his filthy hands on his trousers as he does. He takes up his papers again, organising them. “Been coming here whenever I can,” he explains, “when I’m not working, of course.” He looks up, apologetically. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” James says softly, going to sit beside him.

“It looks as though you  _ are _ working.”

“Perhaps,” Solomon chuckles, handing over the sketches for James to see. “Just seem to be in the mood for it lately. Been carving too - little things, just trying them out. Don’t think I ever had so many ideas in my life,” he says, looking out at the water, smiling, dimples in his cheeks and soft brown eyes wide with expectation. “Soon as I set down my tools I take up my pencil. I was awake half the night making drawings. Do you ever get that way?" 

“Sometimes,” James looks down at the papers; he has not had one original idea since the war, he thinks, if he ever had any. He touches the charcoal next, lying in neat black rectangles inside a tin box, “these are a nice set," he remarks, "did you have to order them?”

“Miss Harper-Brown sent them on to me,” Solomon replies. “Some fancy paper too, thicker stuff than I normally get, only I didn’t like to bring that outside in case it gets dirty.”

“Phoebe is sending you things?”

“Only the charcoal and the paper - she has been very kind.”

“Indeed.”

Solomon must catch something in his voice and glances at him sideways, “say what you mean, James.”

James shakes his head innocently, tidying the papers in his lap. “I’m pleased for you - I’ve always thought you were talented.”

“Oh, shut your face."

"Eat your lunch."

Tozer grins, and bites into the roll again. While he eats James looks through the sketches properly. There are all kinds of thoughts here - birds mid-flight, or skating across the water of the lake. Studies of the texture of bark, the dark velvety ruched undersides of mushrooms - a woman’s round smiling face; a man’s heavy, workworn hands. They are rough; quickly captured, but they are so refined. Each one is large, filling every page, sketched out with such confidence and arresting presence. Nothing is too inconsequential for Solomon’s attention - everything is seen and laid out in brutal monochrome. 

"Now, if you are amenable,” Tozer wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowing the last of his meal, “I have something to ask you.” 

“Certainly,” James straightens, bracing himself.

“Don’t be a prick about it.”

“Me? Never.”

“I have been invited to London.”

James’ insides twist. “By Phoebe?”

“Nah, the prime minister.”

“Actually,” James quips, quick as a flash, “Phoebe’s father is a personal friend to Mr Baldwin.”

“You’re having me on,” Solomon shakes his head, eyes creasing in the corners, “I suppose I ought not be surprised by anything where you lot are concerned.” 

“And have you accepted the invitation?”

“I said I would think about it. I’ve never been before, and she wants to take me round some of her dad’s galleries, to meet people. Show off some of my bronzes, if I can get them ready in time - which I think I shall. I’ve not the foggiest notion what I’ll say to anyone I meet, mind.”

“Don’t worry,” James replies ruefully, “Phoebe certainly will.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Solomon laughs, before looking at him seriously, “still though. She doesn’t know me as well as you do. I know it’s a lot to ask, and I hope you only say yes if it won’t interrupt your other plans.”

“You want me to come with you?” James’ heartbeat begins to quicken, warmth floods his chest - he is not forgotten. 

“I know how much work there is at the house,” Solomon is saying, “and as you say, Miss Harper-Brown will be there anyway, and she has promised to fix me up with lodgings--”

“Of course not,” James shakes his head, placing a hand on Solomon’s knee, “you’ll stay in my flat in Bloomsbury.”

“Will I?” he blinks, a small smile growing in his features. "With you?"

"No, with the prime minister."

"Prick," Solomon shakes his head. He can’t stop smiling, he looks out at the lake again, "I think I'll enjoy that.”

James smiles too, trying to share in Solomon’s good mood and finding himself horribly wanting.

“Oi, what’s the face for?” Solomon says quietly, catching his chin and leaning in to kiss him. Warmth spreads through James once more, he grips Tozer’s arms and kisses him back, hard. 

“I’ve wanted to see you sooner than this,” he says, as they pull apart. 

“I haven’t kept away on purpose,” Solomon replies, “you know it’s difficult for me, with all the lads about - I’m responsible. I can’t always get away.”

“I could come to you, if it’s easier, or… do you always come here at this time?”

“While the weather’s fair,” Solomon eyes him, carefully, “Jude often comes up, though, so...”

“I suppose that can’t be helped.”

“We’ve London to look forward to now, eh?” Solomon says, “then it will be just the two of us. ”

“Of course,” James is keen to appear understanding, he wouldn’t want to cause Solomon any trouble. They kiss again, Solomon’s hot hands on his waist, and James wishes they were young again, he wishes he could take away every burden they have and send it off for someone else to struggle with. 

Presently, Solomon brushes his hands on his knees and stretches. “I’d better get back to work.”

He takes the papers from James, sorting them into a loose pile and then rolling them up, stuffing them into his back pocket. The tin of charcoal goes there too. 

“You ought to have somewhere to keep all of that,” James comments, as he stands too. “I say, how’s this?” He reaches into his pocket for the chain and finds the summerhouse key, twisting it loose and handing it over. “If it’s useful to you?”

“Really, you don’t mind?”

“Somebody ought to use it,” James replies, nodding sincerely. “I could have a desk brought down for you - I’m overrun with furniture, have your pick.”

“What are you like,” Solomon shakes his head with a laugh. He accepts the key, and takes the drawings and the charcoal inside, setting them on the mantelpiece for safekeeping.

James nods, watching Solomon lock the door. 

“I ought to pay you something for it - rent.”

“No need,” James waves a hand.

“James.”

“ _ Solomon _ .”

He gives up, and slips the key into his pocket. “Have it your way,” he mutters, “but it’s too much, and I owe you enough already.”

Desperate to change the subject and prolong their unexpected meeting, James changes tack, “the vicar came to see me, earlier,” he offers. 

“Did he?” Solomon laughs knowingly. “How did you find him, then?”

“Oh, right enough. He seemed very concerned about one of your men - a Mr Hickey?”

“What about him?” Solomon frowns, his shoulders stiffening.

“He hasn’t been baptised.”

Solomon relaxes, a grin crossing his face, “not surprised.”

“Irving seemed to think I was responsible for encouraging a conversion. Or at least, he thought that Father would have made a point to intervene.” James twists his mouth, realising he is saying far more than he meant to.

"Oh yeah?” Solomon replies, unperturbed, “well what do you think?"

"What do I think Father would have done?"

"What do  _ you _ think about intervening? Conversion, or what have you?”

"I… well I say it is up to the man himself, of course."

"Well, then,” Solomon shrugs, as though that is that, and James feels foolish for having complicated it. 

“Yes, I told Reverend Irving as much.”

“Good. He means all right, he'll drop it eventually. Or Hickey'll leave. Reckon that’s more likely. Right,” he begins following the path out, “enjoy your afternoon, yer Lordship.”

James hangs back a moment, slipping a hand into his pocket. He has forgotten his cigarettes. Frowning, he hurries to catch Tozer up. Solomon turns with a look of confusion, “coming with me, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Thought you’d come to the lake for something,” Solomon jerks his head back.

“Well, I suppose I had, but I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Here every day but Sunday,” he replies infuriatingly.

“No, I know, but I mean… you know what I mean.” James can feel his cheeks heat up, and he doesn’t like it. Solomon never makes such a game of it usually. 

“Ah, well, you’ve kept me busy with plenty else,” Solomon says, dimples returning to brighten his face, “haven’t had this much work since Weekes died.”

“A calamity of my own making,” James says wryly. “What about your evenings?”

“I’m in bed early, and when I’m not…” he looks a little flustered. James’ jaw tightens. A girl, maybe. He ought to have expected it.

“When you’re not…?” He prompts.

“Like I said, I’ve the work to oversee, then the carvings to get finished and sent off to the foundry. I’ve my family, they expect me for supper most nights.” Solomon says, his pace picking up a little as they leave the trees and cross out to the lawn again. “And… to tell you the truth, I took a lot of stick over that party - Miss Harper-Brown showing up the way she did, and me missing church. Don’t want anyone thinking too hard about it, do we? No good for either of us.”

“No,” James replies carefully, “you’re quite right, of course. Perhaps now you have the key to the summerhouse, though…?”

“Perhaps. I really have been up against it with all the work on,” Solomon explains, and he sounds  _ almost _ sorry for it. His pace slows, his tone grows confiding, “I tell you, it’ll be hard enough saying yes to a weekend in London, what with the statue, the work on at the house and harvest not far off.”

"Why not have a holiday after the repointing is completed?” James suggests, “you’ve earnt it.”

Solomon shakes his head, “onto the next job - rent to pay.”

"Yes, but as your  _ landlord _ , I could easily --”

“Don't,” Tozer says sharply, stopping in his tracks to address James fully, “stop that now.”

“I'm only teasing," James says, though he hadn't been.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Solomon tuts and walks on, "things are how they are, you know it as well as I do."

James nods, feeling scolded, and chews the inside of his cheek as he follows Tozer. They make their way steadily along the hedges, the smell from the rose garden drifting down to meet them. They will have to part ways, now, and this is how things will always be; that is Solomon’s clear message.

Ahead of them the men are getting back to work, calling out to each other in gruff voices, setting their hats back on their heads and scaling the network of scaffolding which creeps up the monolithic walls of Cadwallen Hoo. At this distance James has no hope of telling any one of them apart - he wonders if Solomon can. He wonders whose hands Solomon chose to sketch, whether that man is part of the crew of workers now taking a chisel to his house. 

"You must let me know the date for London," James says, when they are almost halfway. "I'll send word ahead to have the flat ready.”

“Will do," Solomon promises. He glances at James, eyes full of fun again, all bad humour quickly dispelled, “expect I shall need a suit. Though I haven’t any idea what passes for well dressed in  _ Bloomsbury _ .”

“Think of it as a village,” James remarks. “There isn't much difference. I can arrange that too, if you’ll let me? I know just the thing.”

“Thought you might. I'll pay you back, mind.”

“Of course you will,” James smiles. 

Solomon looks troubled, “winter is quieter,” he says, almost too gently, as though he is pacifying an overwrought child, “I can see more of you then.”

“It’s nothing, I was only wondering,” James shakes his head, dismissively.

Together they have reached an indistinct point, the summerhouse so far behind them it has vanished, and Solomon’s workmates close enough to notice them, if they cared to look. Solomon clearly decides this is as good a point as any, and gives James a final short nod.

“I'll see you, then.”

“Yes, goodbye,” James replies, just as blandly. 

Tozer strides off, waving at somebody high up and shouting something indiscernible. His posture changes, his gait widens and his shoulders broaden - he is a man among his fellows, and there is work to be done. James raises his camera and snatches the image for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "Ode on Solitude" by Alexander Pope
> 
> Coming soon: A TRIP TO LONDON - ART SNOBBERY - JAZZ


	7. A trip to London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solomon has an extremely overwhelming London experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week late because I was finishing my Hickeyshipping assignment, and because this chapter somehow ended up being 16k. 
> 
> Thank you thank you Kt_fairy for reading and checking and mending.

_ This City now doth, like a garment, wear _

_ The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, _

_ Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie _

_ Open unto the fields, and to the sky; _

The new shoes he ordered from Shrewsbury need more treading in; they pinch across the top, but he hasn’t had the time for strolling about, and hates the thought of wearing them in his workshop, getting them all scuffed up before they have been anywhere near London.

Lydia was very pleased, of course, and there was enough money left from the work on the windows to have a new pair of shoes each for Jude and Isaac - it was as good as Christmas the day everything arrived. 

“London, now,” Bryant says, standing at the kitchen table where he is mending the leg of Isaac’s stool. Isaac is beside him, and is supposed to be paying attention, but seems to have been distracted by a small spider which is lowering itself from the black ceiling beams on a fine silver thread. The boy gazes at it, opened mouthed -  _ catching flies _ , their mother would say.

“Turning into a proper city gent,” Bryant eyes Tozer’s new shoes.

“Will you see Miss Harper-Brown again?” Jude asks eagerly from the kitchen sink. She was quite taken with the elegant young woman who visited that Sunday morning, and has been begging Lydia to cut her hair just as short ever since.

“Expect he will,” Bryant answers before Solomon can, giving him a sly, knowing look.

Solomon doesn’t know how to respond. He supposes everyone’s assumption about his connection with Phoebe is better than the real truth, but all the same he’d rather not have lies told about her, even if the trifling gossip of a village like Culswen is of no consequence to a lady as high born and independent as she is. 

“It’s business,” is all he says, before whistling sharply at Isaac and nodding his head at the task at hand. The boy is slow to react, and stares blankly at Bryant’s toolbox. He’s not stupid, Solomon doesn’t think, only a bit quiet, and a daydreamer. As the baby of the family this tendency has always been overlooked, but now he’s twelve he needs to sharpen up quickly, or who knows what sort of work he’ll ever be fit for. Even Magnus Manson can follow instructions.

“Business,” Bryant shakes his head, turning the stool upright on its seat, “missing Church again Sunday, are you?”

“David, that was almost two months ago,” Lydia enters the kitchen untying her apron. She’s tired, her hair falling out of its usual tidy bun and her eyes shadowy. Little Davy is teething, and won’t give anyone a minute’s peace. Lydia sits beside Solomon at the table, yawning, “I’m sure London has churches. Maybe Lord Gambier can take Sol to his. Do us a pot of tea, eh Rhoda?”

“Lord Gambier doesn’t go to church,” Jude says still at the sink, where she and Rhoda are doing the washing up. Rhoda sets down her dishcloth and fills the kettle instead, Jude manning the pump. “I’ve never seen him. Do you think he’s a heathen?” 

“Mind your own business,” Solomon says - to Jude, though Bryant looks up at him as he says it and catches his eye.

“Only thinking of you, Sol,” he says, twisting off the crooked leg of the stool with some huffing. “Been enough talk about you and your  _ business dealings _ .”

“Stop it,” Lydia tuts, leaning forward on her elbows and rubbing her temples. 

“I’ve told you,” Solomon insists, “Miss Harper-Brown has commissioned some carving, that’s all it is. She’s no interest in me.”

“If you say so,” Bryant smirks.

It’s his own fault, Solomon reckons; he hasn’t explained it properly. He doesn’t see why he should have to anyway. They won’t understand about patrons, or galleries, or art dealers - Solomon himself barely understands it - and if the response to his evening of glamour at Cadwallen Hoo was any indication, then he knows it’s best to keep tight-lipped about the plans he has for London. If there ends up being any money in it - and there might be, eventually - it will all make more sense. Until then, he will take his lumps.

“Have you a clean shirt for tomorrow, Sol?” Lydia asks, yawning again.

“Yeah,” he nods. He hasn’t, but Fitzjames said it would all be taken care of. He expects he might be able to borrow one at short notice. His own won’t be right for it, he’s very sure. 

“If they like your carvings, down in London,” Bryant says, fitting the new leg into the stool, twisting hard, knuckles white, “can we expect more motorcars and ladies in breeches?”

“I hope so,” Jude calls over her shoulder. The kettle begins to whistle, rattling on the stove, and Rhoda goes to take it off.

“...or maybe you’ll move there, eh?” Bryant continues, giving the chair leg a wallop to make sure. “If that’s where the interest is.”

“Oh no, Sol!” Rhoda says, and Judith whips around, alarmed. Rhoda finishes pouring the water and lifts the tea tray to bring to the table, “you won’t leave, will you?”

“I’ve no plans to,” he assures her, hating Bryant. 

“Solomon is a grown man, he can do what he likes,” Lydia huffs, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her cup. “You lot leave him alone. I say it’s about time Culswen had some life in it. Motorcars and all.”

“If you get rich in London,” Jude sidles over to him, drying her hands on her apron - or the remnants of her apron, which caught fire for the third time last week and now hangs like a beggar’s rags about her waist, “will  _ you _ get a motorcar? Can I drive it?”

“They don’t let girls drive,” Isaac finally speaks, reaching for his cup of tea and knocking the tin of glue off the table with a clatter and a splat.

“Idiot,” Bryant slaps the back of the boy’s head as he scrambles under the table to pick it up. 

“They  _ do so _ , I read about it,” Jude snaps at her brother, “just because no one would ever let you drive.”

“They would!” Isaac surfaces, “you’d let me drive, your car wouldn’t you Sol? It’s not fair if you let her and not me!” He sets the pot down awkwardly, pushing the lid back into place. His hands are covered in the thick, foul smelling paste.

“Look at the state of you,” Lydia sighs heavily, setting down her barely-started cup of tea and standing up, “come on, use the outside tap -  _ Isaac Jakes _ ! If you wipe those filthy hands on your trousers I’ll wallop you into next week!"

“Sit down,” Solomon stands, “I’ll take him. Come on, you,” he jerks his head at the boy, who is frozen still, blinking with confusion and on the verge of tears. 

They go through the hall and out the back door, both grateful to be away from the rest of the family, into the yard where there is an ancient cast iron pump by the outhouse and a bar of soap sitting out for Bryant to wash after a day’s work. Solomon helps a sniffling Isaac carefully out of his shirt without getting the sleeves sticky, then pumps out some water into the bucket for him. It’s not dark yet, but the blackbirds are coming in to roost, squawking like a pack of devils in the trees at the back of the yard. 

“Use the soap,” he tells his brother, feeling in his pockets for his tobacco. “Lots of it, go on.”

“Will you let me drive the car, Sol?” Isaac looks up at him wide eyed, working the marbled carbolic soap up into a lather between his hands.

“I’m not getting a bloody car,” Solomon shakes his head.

“But if you  _ did _ ,” Isaac squeezes the bar too hard and it slips out of his hands, skidding across the cobbled yard and into a patch of weeds coming up by the fence. “Sorry!”

Solomon goes to fetch it. “Keep washing,” he instructs. “If I did,” he stoops to collect the soap, which is covered in grit and bits of grass, “then I’d let you. If you learn how to drive properly. With me in the car.”

“ _ Before _ you let Jude!”

“Oi, be nice to your sister, she loves you,” Solomon drops the soap into the bucket and resumes rolling his cigarette.

“No she doesn’t, no one does,” Isaac mumbles pitifully, still lathering his hands. “No one in the whole family.”

“Of course they do. I do, Lydia does, Rhoda does, and Davy and Dolly…”

“They’re babies,” Isaac pulls a face, “and Lydia doesn’t, I broke her jug and she boxed my ears."

"Her jug?"

"The little blue milk jug, I dropped it."

"Well I'm sure she forgives you," Solomon says. He knows that jug, it had a pretty flower pattern on it Lydia has liked since she was a girl. On birthdays when she was little they used to let her drink her tea out of it.

Isaac is still sniffing, "...and Mr Bryant hates me because I’m thick, but I can’t  _ help _ being thick, can I Sol?”

“You’re not thick,” Solomon rubs the back of his neck. “You just need to pay attention, eh? Stop drifting off so much.”

“Yeah.” 

He keeps washing, plunging his hands into the bucket and getting his trousers soaked - but at least the water is clean. Solomon watches him while he smokes, enjoying the peace. 

He’s fond of Isaac, and Isaac looks up to him in the same way Joshua used to. He looks like Joshua - all the Jakes children look alike, really - but it’s noticeable as he gets older. Every now and then he laughs a certain way, or pulls a face which could belong to their lost brother. Lydia sees it too, Solomon is sure, and perhaps that’s why she’s hard on him. 

It ought to be a heartening thought, the way that life goes on and something of the dead still echoes in those left behind, but Solomon hasn’t learnt how to find comfort in it yet. One day Isaac will be older than Joshua or Samuel ever were, and then how will it feel? Sometimes Solomon is grateful Aaron left seeking work when he did. He is nineteen now, and must be the spitting image of the elder two. 

“Can I come to the pub with you and Mr Bryant?” Isaac is asking. Somehow his hair is wet, soap bubbles clinging to his cowlick where he pushes it out of his eyes. “I’m old enough.”

“Tell you what,” Solomon brushes his hand over the boy’s hair to get the worst out, “if you finish your chores and you’re nice to your sisters for a week, I’ll take you next Friday.”

“Really?”

“I’ll be checking with Lydia, mind.”

“I can do it,” Isaac sets his mouth, a firm line of determination just like Jude. 

“Come on then,” Solomon grins. “Back in.”

Inside the family is settling in for the night. They can hear Rhoda and Jude’s footsteps thudding upstairs, whispers and giggling. Isaac rolls his eyes and Solomon laughs. 

He stops just outside the kitchen and hears Lydia and Bryant hissing at each other, the way they do when they are bickering.

“Go on," Solomon says to Isaac, kissing the top of his head and handing his shirt back, "upstairs and out of those wet things."

Isaac obeys with a small smile, dragging his feet and dawdling up the stairs, sliding his hand up the oak bannister as he goes, just the same way every child who has grown up in this house has done before him, polishing it dark and smooth. 

Solomon lingers just inside the passage, listening, not wanting to interrupt.

"I'm only saying, it's causing talk," Bryant grumbles. "He's barely seen in The Ship any more."

"Good thing, I say," Lydia says, "no man ever found himself worse off for having practiced a little temperance."

“It's more than that and you know it.”

"Say I don't. Why don't you tell me what goes on in that pub of yours that's so important, eh Mr Bryant? What is it you all mutter about you don’t want your wives hearing, eh?"

"Ah, you're a vexsome wench."

"Aye, I am. Solomon is working, you know how important that statue is to him. He hasn’t got time to sit around clucking and swilling ale with you lot"

"He's time enough to go to fancy suppers up there, time enough for  _ London _ .”

Solomon grimaces. 

The party may have been a mistake, he has thought so every day since. It became apparent the moment he reached the bottom of the hill with Phoebe (she does insist he call her Phoebe) that Sunday morning. The suddenness with which his perspective changed was dizzying, his error sickeningly obvious to him when the villagers began to pour out from the church doors just as he was unlocking his workshop to show her inside. No one said a word, but everybody spared a glance. He'd never been looked at like that before, not ever - as though he was a stranger.

"Oh!" Lydia huffs, inside the kitchen, "you were all for it in the beginning! 'Milk them dry', you said.”

“I’m not against him earning,” Bryant insists, “but how is he earning it, eh? Posh tarts in trousers and Nancy boys in motorcars? Look at the types he's mixing with. What do you think people like that want with someone like Sol?"

“I won’t listen to this! New shoes for Jude and Isaac, and all those men hired for work at the Hoo, you should be thinking on that."

Solomon steps away from the door, and makes to leave. He’s no interest in hearing more, and though he had planned to, he isn’t much in the mood to go to the pub with Bryant now. 

Outside in the peaceful street Tozer walks slowly, without firm direction. Times are very strange, he thinks. He stares at the sign over The Ship, and listens to the soft babble of chatter within, and it somehow feels uninviting to him. The workshop beside it, with John Weekes’ name still painted over the door seems wrong, and the thought of his makeshift bed tucked away in the rafters stifling. He’s not sure where this agitation has come from; he has never wanted anything more than a home of his own, and to see his family well cared for.

A month ago Solomon sent four wooden carvings to a foundry in Shrewsbury, and this morning had word from Phoebe that they were cast and on their way to London. He can hardly believe it; in two days he will see them for himself. They will be displayed, and he will finally know whether or not they are really worth something. Phoebe was very complimentary of the initial drawings, but he cannot tell if that is simply her manner. It might all have been for nothing.

He hasn’t known how to say any of this to Lydia, to Fitzjames, or to any of his friends. He has been turned upside down by it all.

So much is different this summer. He feels the tempting pull of something new, of a life uncharted; and also the reliable counterweight of everything he has worked for in Culswen. This constant tearing of himself makes him restless and guarded. He cannot enjoy the company of his friends as he used to, he finds his family difficult and tiring - so for the past few weeks he has gone to earth, preferring the quiet outdoors to anywhere else. He only intended the isolation to last until the carvings were finished, he told himself, but it seems that his absence has been noted.

Once or twice, on an evening like this when he needs to be somewhere other than the village he has walked up to the summerhouse and sat quietly on the steps in front of the lake. He tried going inside once, but it is too difficult to think of anything but Fitzjames when he does, and that’s a dangerous thread to keep tugging at, when he has so much else hanging in the balance. When James gave Solomon the key that day, he wanted to say no.  _ Don’t trust me with this _ , he’d nearly said,  _ don’t ask me to trust you _ . James has offered such invitations before; sometimes he holds out a key, sometimes a hand, sometimes a kiss. Solomon tells himself each time that he will take care; that he has learnt his lesson, but he knows he hasn’t. So it always is when you want something very badly. You look for the lies you can bring yourself to believe.

He crosses to unlock his workshop. He won't go to the pub, but he will get some more drawing done, that might settle him. Solomon concedes that Bryant may be right - he has given more space to his own fancies recently, and he has allowed himself to be enticed by promises from people whose world he does not belong to. 

But that is not all, and that is not the worst of it. Solomon can feel the balance inside him shifting every day. He is brimming over with something strange and new, and he does not know what will happen when everyone else sees it too.

* * *

Friday passes quickly - the masonry at the Hoo is almost finished, and Solomon can find no other little jobs to keep himself busy with, despite Fitzjames' requests that he check the whole house over again. The repointing is complete and there seem to be no cracks in the rendering. The sculpting on the facade is in good nick, and needs no further attention from him.

Give it another decade, he tells Fitzjames, and is met with the tight, false smile he usually reserves for the others. He’s disappointed. Solomon can’t help that, and he’d like to say so, but there is always somebody nearby, at the Hoo. 

There’s still plenty of work for the rest of the lads; carpentry and painting, plumbing; taking down walls and relaying floors. Solomon is pleased enough to leave them to it, and to finally get on with the statue for Mr Le Vesconte in his own workshop where no one can interrupt him for a few hours. He has tried small models in clay, and wood, and even some granite he had surplus from a headstone, but something about the shape doesn't look right. The direction seems too severe, the angles of the subject’s body naive and unnatural. 

By midday he is on his way back through the village, and he stops in at The Ship to see if there are any messages for him. The pub is empty, still gloomy even on a bright summer afternoon, because Gibson never seems to get around to much cleaning. Needs a wife, Lydia says - though she says that about every unmarried man. 

Billy isn’t behind the bar, and doesn’t appear when Tozer calls out, so he lets himself behind the counter and into the narrow hall which leads into the rest of the building - Gibson’s spartan living quarters, and the two guest rooms upstairs. The village telephone is affixed to the wall there, and Solomon sees a note scribbled on the jotter on the table below -  _ Miss H-B -- S. Tozer, 10 o’clock. _

Picking up the receiver, Solomon dials for the Belgravia exchange and requests Phoebe’s number, which he has memorised by now. He listens for the ringing, and not for the first time marvels at the thought of his voice being carried by wires all the way down to London. 

“Good afternoon?”

“Miss Harper-Brown? This is Solomon Tozer.”

“Solomon, sweetheart! How are you?”

He smiles, pressing the cold hard receiver to his warm face as Phoebe’s voice rattles up the line. 

“I’m very well, thank you. I had a message to contact you,” he eyes the note again, fiddling with the pen. 

"Ah, yes,” she exhales, it sounds as though she’s smoking, her voice is breathy and deep, “I just wanted to tell you your bronzes have arrived here, safe and sound. Awfully heavy, needed four men each to get them off the van.”

“That is--” his heart thuds in his chest and a strangely queasy sensation floods his belly. He swallows, “how do they look?”

“Darling I wouldn't dream of opening them until you arrive! You are still coming?”

“Yes, tomorrow - I have the address for the gallery, we can come as early as you like.”

“Gosh, better not,” she laughs, and he hears a jangling sound on her end which might be jewellery or the like, “I shan’t even be  _ alive _ until midday.”

“Well, whenever you like, then,” he says.

“Tell Fitz to ring ahead, eh? He’ll hurry me along. Now I absolutely  _ must _ go, I’ve a thousand and one things to do before my supper plans this evening. See you soon my dear!”

She hangs up without waiting for a goodbye - Solomon is still trying to work out what passes for good manners with Fitzjames’ friends, but he supposes he shall learn more tomorrow. He sets the mouthpiece back into its cradle, just as a creaking noise sounds overhead.

“Who’s there?” Gibson’s hoarse voice calls down the stairs.

“Only me,” Solomon calls back, “on my way out.”

Billy is already hurrying down to see him. He isn’t wearing his jacket, and has missed one of the buttons on his waistcoat. “Solomon,” he blinks, frowning and clearing his throat, “my apologies.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I only came in to use the telephone," Tozer nods at the stand.

“Fine, fine,” Billy nods, distractedly, squeezing past him to get back behind the bar, “You don’t want a drink?”

“Not for me, back to work.”

“Mm,” Gibson clears his throat again, bobbing his head, “don’t let me keep you.” 

He takes up an empty glass sitting on the counter and begins to clean it with the nearest available rag. Solomon considers asking whether he is feeling well, but Gibson has always been a bit of an odd sort, and they’re not what you would call friends. 

He is just making his way out when he hears footsteps upstairs again, and then a soft thudding on the staircase. Cornelius Hickey appears in the hallway, hair combed back and grinning from ear to ear, as though he cannot imagine a more wonderful coincidence than bumping into Solomon in the middle of the day.

“Afternoon, Mr Tozer,” he trills merrily.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hear you’re off to London?”

Solomon grunts in response, keen to get on. 

“Mr Hickey came to fetch something from his room,” Gibson says hurriedly, still polishing the same glass, wrists and knuckles twisting, “he has it now, so I’m sure he’s on his way back up to work.”

“Joining me, Mr Tozer?” Hickey winks.

“Finished at the big house,” Solomon says, eyeing them both, “you can report to Mr Peglar, if you’re at a loose end.”

“Dreadful shame, that,” Hickey says conversationally, following him outside.

“Is it?”

“Oh yes,” Hickey nods earnestly, “in a house that size an enterprising man might find all manner of business to occupy himself with.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not an enterprising man,” Tozer shrugs.

“Oh no?” Hickey gives him a sidelong glance, something sharp in his eyes which makes Solomon feel he can see right inside his head, “off to London for the good of your health, are you? Carvings sent to Shrewsbury, is what I heard.”

He’s got a lot of front, for a man caught clearly at his leisure when he’s being paid to work a mile uphill, Solomon thinks, though he doesn’t say it. He has spent enough time with Hickey now to know that there is no sense trying to anticipate his behaviour, or the direction his harmless little enquiries will take. Solomon hates to be needled at, and Hickey is far too adept at it for comfort. 

“Good afternoon, Mr Hickey,” he turns away.

“I was speaking to Mr Bryant, last night,” Hickey raises his voice as Solomon looks for his keys, “mentioned to me that there might be an opportunity for a bit of hunting, come autumn.”

“Didn’t know you planned to stay that long,” Solomon says, suspicious.

“I can never be sure how long I'll stay anywhere,” his eyes flick over Solomon,“I like to keep my ear to the ground.”

“Good shot, are you?” He asks, unable to keep a sneer of his own from his voice - for as gifted as Hickey is at flattery and time wasting, Solomon has yet to see him exhibit any practical skills. 

“Terrible,” Hickey smiles openly, “but I know my way around a trap.”

Solomon looks at him for a while. Cocky little git. The street is quiet and mostly empty, but it’s still not the done thing to discuss poaching in broad daylight. Solomon doesn’t know where Hickey was dragged up, but his peculiar variety of indiscretion and brazen cheek will not serve him for long in a village like Culswen. Let alone whatever is going on in The Ship that has Billy Gibson all of a flutter. It’s none of Tozer’s business, and he intends to steer well clear of all of it.

“How about you work at keeping the job you have, and report to Mr Peglar for now,” he says, finally unlocking his shop.

Hickey is unperturbed, and meets Solomon’s reticence with a glancing shrug and a smile. Solomon has seen nothing yet that will wipe the smirking grin from his face, though he’d like to be there when someone finally does. 

“Enjoy London, Mr Tozer. Careful of pickpockets, now,” Hickey waves to him merrily as he finally leaves, back up to Cadwallen Hoo.

* * * 

He works on the sculpture until late afternoon, sketching more detail, attempting the feet, then the hands. None of it comes to anything, he can't see it clearly enough. He ought to go back up to the lake and try to imagine it again. His mind isn’t fully on the task; part of him is fretting over Bryant’s concerns from the night before, and the other part impatient to see his four completed bronzes in the flesh, finally. 

It’s with some relief that he sets down his tools and locks up for the evening. He swaps his neckerchief for his tie, washes his hands, face and the back of his neck, then collects up his old duffle kit-bag which contains his new shoes, a clean pair of socks, a bit of sketching paper and a pencil, along with some emergency cash shoved down at the bottom. 

He doesn’t drop in on Lydia, or the pub, too eager to shake all of it off for the weekend. He will do anything he can to avoid being asked where he is going, or how long for, or who he will see when he gets there, and so he sets his sights on Cadwallen Hoo and strolls quickly uphill. 

Diverting to the summerhouse, Solomon changes his shoes quickly and leaves his scruffy working ones behind, locking the door and feeling like a thief. Then continues on his way. Work has finished for the day, and he gets away with little more than a word and a nod to the men coming downhill, home from work, and good thing too, because when he reaches the top James is already waiting for him, sitting side on in the driver's seat of his car, long legs stretched out on the driveway gravel, smoking as usual.

“Good afternoon,” he smiles.

“Afternoon,” Tozer grins, tossing his bag into the back seat. “Are you ready?”

“I should say so,” James throws down his cigarette and pulls on his driving goggles, no doubt every bit as keen as Solomon is to be away from the valley. 

Solomon climbs in the passenger side and slides down into the seat, the mechanisms already growling beneath him, and excitement leaps up in his chest as the exhaust puffs and splutters and Fitzjames pulls on the gearstick. 

And then they are flying; rushing down the sweeping driveway, through the avenue of shady trees at the bottom of the hill and away. The engine is roaring and the wheels are spinning up dust, the wind and the hills rush past them and  _ at last _ \- at long last, Tozer may be at ease. He can't keep the smile from his lips, and once they are a few miles clear from the valley, and quite alone on the road he leans across and plants a happy kiss to the side of James' face.

James smiles back at him, eyes creasing inside his goggles, “looking forward to your little holiday?”

“I am, as it goes,” Solomon replies, leaning back in the seat, one arm resting on the passenger door, the other over the back of the seat.

Together they thunder through the West Midlands, hills rising ahead of them and thin chimney stacks smoking in the distance. Remote villages appear and then vanish into valleys as they drive alongside canals and railway lines, the threads of the land; veins of industry. 

These are all homely, familiar sights to Solomon, and yet he cannot suppress the hungry thrill of anticipation he feels as they rush past it all and leave it behind, as though James is bearing him off to another country entirely. These past weeks have been difficult, uncomfortable and tiresome, but now they may both breathe in the air, and smile at the sky, and look forward to a few days of respite.

The roads lengthen as their journeys progresses, and the thrum of the car seat begins to make him drowsy, reminding him how little he has slept this week - last night he was working at the statue until well past midnight, and the night before that he had been at the summerhouse until almost dawn. There never seems to be enough time for everything. The sun is beginning to set on Fitzjames’ side, a blazing amber ball over his right shoulder. Solomon yawns, slouching a little, and James glances over at him.

“Doze off, if you like, we’ve miles and miles to go yet.”

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest as he yawns again. “Early start, that’s all.”

“There’s a blanket on the back seat.”

“Give over,” Solomon laughs, “I said I’m all right.”

James relents with a peaceable smile and tilt of his head, and in a few minutes Solomon has closed his eyes and cannot seem to open them again, slumping against the seat.

If he dreams, then it must be of hillsides, and if they stop anywhere to fill up the tank then Solomon is completely dead to it. 

The sun is gone by the time they reach London, and twilight fast approaching, but the streets are as busy as if it is a market day, and Solomon awakes surrounded by strange sights and startling noises. The blaring of car horns, the clatter of hooves on pavement and rattle of cab wheels. Hundreds of bicycles ringing shrill bells weave in and out of the cars, flying past the huge hissing double-decker buses which amble and groan between the street lamps like elephants. 

The surrounding buildings tower above the street and narrow the darkening sky. Every doorway and window seems to be lit up, and there are brightly coloured posters plastered to every scrap of wall advertising everything from boot polish to gramophone records. Shop windows and theatre entrances are adorned with flickering bulbs; beads of yellow light dotting every facade. Everything is a distraction, and there is so much of it Solomon’s eyes begin to sting.

“Ah, welcome back,” Fitzjames says as Solomon stretches and sits up in his seat. His mouth is dry and his neck stiff. Fitzjames has taken off his goggles, the electric lights are reflected in the shine of his hair and the blackest part of his pupils.

“Is your flat near here?” Solomon croaks, fixing his hat back on his head.

“No, but we’re almost there.”

It’s nothing like Shrewsbury, which until now is the largest town Solomon has ever visited. Even in France he only saw the countryside; and at least that was a point of reference. Here, there are so many people he cannot imagine what they must all be doing; how they live their lives or what kinds of troubles they have. They turn down one street and hear music playing at the end, then down another and there is a park with a patch of trees and lawn and flowerbeds, all shrouded by the lengthening evening shadows. 

He’s relieved to find that the square Fitzjames lives on is much quieter, and away from the broad, gaudy streets. They drive slowly along pretty tree-lined roads with tall red brick terraced houses. The foot traffic is considerably less boisterous here; solitary men walk purposefully along the pavement with canes and bowler hats, hailing cabs and touching their caps when they pass. There is a red telephone box on the corner of the square, and a garden in the middle, with oak trees and birch. It’s a postage stamp compared to the grounds at Cadwallen Hoo, but Solomon supposes it must be considered a luxury in London, where open space is clearly at a premium. 

“Here we are,” James says as he pulls up to the curb outside a building with a smart black front door. There are marble steps leading up to the porch, a lamp softly glowing beneath the striped brick archway. 

Solomon helps James pull the cover over his car and then follows him hesitantly up into the building. He lives in a flat, not the entire house, Solomon knows, which starts him wondering who the neighbours might be, and how many of them there are. There is a kind faced man in a top hat and long frock-coat just inside the black and white tiled entrance hall, who James greets politely before crossing to a narrow elevator with a golden wrought metal gate. He follows James inside and watches him press the button for the top floor.

The lifts Tozer has used before have been more like mine shafts, meant for shuttling men up and down the tunnels in France, but this is the furthest thing he can imagine from that. There's carpet inside, and it has its own little cushioned seat and electric light. The walls are papered with a pattern of Chinese chrysanthemums, green and pink and gold. He has to remind himself to keep his mouth shut and stop catching flies like soft-headed Isaac. 

It’s a short trip up, and they arrive in a silent corridor with a polished chestnut floor. James opens the gate again and crosses to a light blue door, which he unlocks with a key from his pocket.

“Welcome!” James beams, ushering him inside.

As he expected, the London flat could not be more different from Cadwallen Hoo. Everything is unashamedly modern, without a trace of tradition. They step directly into the parlour - which James pronounces the  _ living room _ , and is bright and open, free from any clutter or sentimentality. The walls are brilliant white, decorated only with a few picture frames and a mirror over the electric fireplace. The settee and armchairs are mahogany, upholstered with golden velvet, and the polished coffee table is made of glass. Much like Cadwallen Hoo, Tozer instantly feels he’d better not touch anything. He considers taking his shoes off, and in the end simply skirts around the expensive looking Moroccan rug, following James into the next room.

“Oh, good show," James says as they enter the kitchen, "they've left us some sustenance."

Solomon follows him through - this room is no bigger than a pantry, clearly intended for only one person’s use. James is bending over the open refrigerator door, and inside Solomon spies cheese and part of a ham, a large pork pie and a jar of pickles. Bread has been left in a basket on the counter, and a bottle of wine, too.

"Who's done all this, then?" Solomon asks, incredulous.

"Oh, Bridgens dialled ahead for an agency to take care of it - they’re awfully good."

Solomon had never pictured anything like that - perhaps in London there are so many people they must all share their servants.

"Are you hungry?" James asks, "we could eat now?" He removes his jacket, and his shirt is creased across the back and shoulders from the drive down. He is wearing braces today, not his usual belt. Solomon licks his lips.

"Show me the rest of the place, first."

James catches his eye. "Of course," he smiles, "follow me."

As they progress up a short hallway off the living room they pass a small study with an easel inside, and a table set up for painting, brushes lying in regimented lines arranged by length. James only opens the door to show Solomon inside, but does not turn on the light before briskly closing it and moving on. The hall is carpeted too; every inch of the place is warm and neat, well finished. 

“Bridgens’ room is on the other side of the flat,” James explains, “and he has his own bathroom, but of course those have been left closed up.”

“Of course,” Solomon agrees, not really knowing what else to say.

The bathroom is next, which Solomon uses quickly, closing the door behind himself with a soft click. It's a small, airless room with pale green tiles and matching pale green porcelain sink, tub and lavatory. The plumbing is all golden and shining, including the elaborate shower head hooked over the bath, which Solomon eyes with suspicion. (He has only ever showered in the army, and it was never exactly a pleasant experience standing bare-arsed under a drizzle of icy water with a block of waxy carbolic you had to share with the bloke shivering next to you.) Pink towels have been left stacked in a tidy pile on the counter for them, and the mirror over the sink is as wide as a window. 

He dries his hands gingerly, and leaves the towel draped over the sink, not sure if that’s the right thing to do. There is already soot in the corners of his eyes, and the insides of his nostrils, so he washes his face again before leaving.

“In here,” James calls when he hears the door open, and Solomon follows his voice to the next room.

James' London bedroom is nothing like the dark wooden box he sleeps in at Cadwallen Hoo. Like everything else it is light and soft, the elegant furniture has smooth curved edges - walnut, polished to gleam under the electric lights. The thick carpet is cream coloured and the windows draped over with white muslin. There’s a telephone on the bedside table - Solomon saw one in the living room, too. 

The agency people must have turned down the bed, for it has all been made up beautifully. The sheets have a soft glow to them like satin, and the pattern is swirls of pale apricot and sky blue. Solomon is itching to touch them. He wants to run his fingers across every surface he sees. 

“You can put your things in here, if you like,” James is saying, going to open the wardrobe doors. Inside it is half empty - Solomon presumes most of his clothes are back in Shropshire. He thinks he spies a dress, over James' shoulder. 

“Haven’t got any things,” Solomon says, dropping his duffle on the carpet below the window. “Except clean socks and a bit of paper.” 

“Oh, I see,” James looks embarrassed, though it isn’t his shame. “We'll collect your suit tomorrow morning - but if you need to borrow anything until then, of course."

“Don't think so," Solomon answers. He takes off his hat and places it on the bedside table. That feels odd, so he picks it up again and moves it to the dresser instead. 

“Does it feel strange being here?” James asks, watching him from the other side of the bed.

“A bit,” he admits. “Does it feel strange having me here?”

“A bit,” James chuckles. 

“I ought to tell you how grateful I am,” Solomon remembers his manners, “for bringing me down and - well, I’d be lost on my own, wouldn’t I?”

“Oh don’t, I can’t bear it,” James waves a hand, “it’s the least I could do.”

They’re suddenly shy of each other - they’ve hardly had any time alone for weeks, and perhaps they’ve forgotten how to be at ease. Solomon nudges the bed frame with his toe, “looks like an improvement on that old antique at the Hoo.”

“Yes, rather,” James looks down at it with a wry smile. “Do you like the sheets? They’re silk.”

“‘Course they are,” Solomon grins. He reaches down to stroke the covers, impossibly light and cool under his fingers. 

Suddenly the telephone rings, the noise shrill and shocking in the quiet bedroom, making Solomon flinch. James’ eyes widen and he hurries around the bed to answer it, standing beside Solomon now.

“Hello? Ah! Yes, I’ve arrived! - Or,  _ we’ve _ arrived, I should say--” he casts a glance at Solomon, his eyes glittering. “Yes, that’s right… yes…? Oh, christ,  _ no _ , I’m exhausted, tell them I’ll see them all tomorrow. Yes, that includes… I  _ beg _ your pardon?! … yes… yes… no!” He laughs aloud, throwing his head back, and Solomon is satisfied it must be Mr Le Vesconte. 

He makes to back away, to give James some privacy perhaps, but James reaches out and grasps his jacket, holding him in place. As he continues responding to Le Vesconte’s apparent interrogation with small one-word answers and hums of agreement, James looks at Tozer and raises an eyebrow. He tugs at the coat, and Solomon removes it. James spreads a hand across his chest, fanning his fingers out and stroking across his ribs, sliding under his braces, then tilts his head to cradle the telephone receiver against his shoulder and slides his other hand down the front of Solomon’s breeches.

Solomon carefully reaches for the phone.

“Dundy, I have to say goodbye now,” James says, eyes still bright with fun as he watches Solomon, taking the receiver from him, “yes… yes, goodbye dear…” 

Click. 

Solomon pulls him in for a deep kiss, and Fitzjames bends into him, squeezing his warm hand inside Solomon’s trousers, kneading the length of his stiffening prick. Flushing with excitement, Solomon cups James’ face, then moves a hand to his waist, and around, groping his backside in a firm request. Fitzjames gasps, gripping Tozer's arm and pulls away, “I should like a wash, first,” he says, his voice thick, “I won't be long.”

He backs away quickly, shrugging out of his own jacket as he does, “please, make yourself comfortable,” he says distractedly, movements hurried.

Tozer sits on the bed, kicking off his new shoes onto the spotless carpet with rakish satisfaction. James stops to slide open the top dresser drawer on the way to the bathroom and Tozer cocks his head. 

“Is that where you keep those stockings you mentioned?”

James turns back to look at him with a slow smile. He opens a lower drawer and pulls out a handful of black lace and ribbons. "One moment," he says as he slips out of the room and down the hall. The bathroom door closes, and the sound of running water and the mechanical noise of the boiler heating up rumbles through the wall.

Solomon sits back on the bed to wait. Outside he can hear the traffic of the evening, moving slowly like a low tide. He’d expected to hear the neighbours doing whatever neighbours do in the adjacent flats - children playing, or a piano perhaps, but all is quiet. Very easy to forget, he thinks, that they are tucked away in the middle of such a frantically bustling city. 

There is a picture on the wall over the dresser of a naked man sitting on a beach, his back turned and his knees drawn up. It’s a fine watercolour - something Solomon has never had much luck with - but strangely sad, he thinks. Quite a thing to have in your bedroom at any rate; for the first time Solomon begins to wonder how many others have sat where he is sitting now. He pulls his socks off and plumps the pillow, rucking up the beautiful sheets as he does. 

Presently, the sound of water stops, and James cracks the door open. Craning his neck, still sitting on the bed, Solomon peers into the hall where white steam billows out along with the scent of something dark and exciting.

"I say,” James calls out. “I’ve a bone to pick with you - you told us all you couldn't speak Welsh."

"I can't," Solomon calls back.

“But I heard you!”

“When?” He scratches his beard. Ought he to have shaved? All of James’ friends are clean shaven, and they all seem to be artistic types.

“When I came upon you by the lake with your sister. You said something, I’m sure of it.”

"Oh," Solomon nods to himself, remembering, "I s’pose I know some words. It's not like you speaking French and Latin and all of that."

"Which words?" James' voice echoes off the bathroom tiles, unseen. Solomon wonders what he is doing, and shifts on the bed, a pleasant tightness growing between his legs.

"Common ones,” he says, “animals and places and the like. The stories - the  _ Tylwyth Teg." _

“See! You said something then!”

“Aye, I can say  _ bonjour, je suis Anglais, _ too, but it's not speaking the language, is it?”

“You have a knack for the words, though, you make them sound lovely.”

Solomon chuckles, “like it, do you?"

“Supposing I do?” James finally appears, emerging from the bathroom into the hall with a wicked smirk. He enters the bedroom wearing his white linen shirt, left unbuttoned and with no tie. His trousers he has cast off too, replaced with the black satin suspender belt, the lower part of which is hardly visible under his shirt tails. The straps of the belt are evenly secured to the tops of his stockings, which are less plain than last time, with a panel of black lace trim which sits halfway up the thigh. The stockings are sheer, and make James’ long legs even more distracting as he closes the door behind and steps inside.

“What you had in mind?” James presents himself, hands on hips, roguishly tossing his hair out of his eyes. Solomon hopes he isn’t catching flies again.

“Can’t tell yet,” he replies, temperature rising, “come here and let’s see.” 

“Say something pretty in Welsh, first,” James says, though he approaches Solomon all the same.

His mind runs blank. He really only knows the words his mother used to say, and none of them are quite suited to this moment.

“Come here,” he says again, and James slowly climbs onto the bed to sit astride Solomon’s lap. He runs his hands over James’ broad thighs, feeling the silk and the lace and his warm beautiful skin all at once. It comes to him, as James leans forward. “ _ Cusana fi _ ,” Solomon says against his lips, “ _ cariad _ .”

James makes a small sound of delight in the back of his throat as Solomon slides his hands up beneath his loose shirt.

* * *

There's a girl in the kitchen in the morning cooking them breakfast, sent by this agency Bridgens organised, apparently. She has cleaned away the mess they made the night before when they finally availed themselves of a very late supper. The girl doesn't come anywhere near the bedroom, but she sees Solomon leave it, and serves them both at the table by the window in the living room without so much as a raised eyebrow. 

“Don't you worry about that?" he asks Fitzjames, after she has left.

“Not really,” James replies. He is wearing a dressing gown in a soft lavender shade over his pyjamas, sitting at his ease reading the newspaper while he drinks his coffee. “I pay them very well, and Bridgens chooses carefully. I'm sure they see much worse working for politicians and bankers.” 

Solomon thinks about this while he eats his eggs and bacon, listening to the morning noises of the city outside, a newspaper seller calling something from the corner, and the heavy clopping of a cart horse trundling a milk float up the street. 

“Shall we go and collect your suit first?” James asks, finishing his coffee. “What time do you want to go to the gallery?”

“Miss Harper-Brown said you ought to telephone her,” Solomon answers, mopping up the last of his yolk with some toast. The bread is white, and the egg delicious, but he can’t help wondering where they came from - he certainly hadn’t seen any chickens on their drive through town last night. “Said she wouldn’t be up until after midday.”

“Did she?” James snorts, “she does tend to sleep in. I’ll ring her now and insist she let us in at twelve on the dot.”

Solomon grins at him, “I’m keen to see the statues, at any rate.”

“As am I,” James says, folding up his paper, “you’ve told me nothing at all.”

“You’ll see them soon enough,” Solomon shrugs. “You saw some of the drawings.”

James makes him leave his plate at the table when they are preparing to leave - apparently another girl will come by in the afternoon. Solomon isn’t sure how he feels about all this coming and going of strangers, but it isn’t his home, so he makes his peace with it. 

He can’t stop watching James move about the flat, lighter on his feet than usual, humming to himself and busily arranging this or that; flowers in the vase over the fireplace, the way the cushions are placed on the settee - he even bends down to pick a bit of fluff out of the rug. Solomon wonders if he could ever feel at home here. Like his own little loft room, it feels very much arranged for one person alone to live in. 

As for the suit, it transpires that Fitzjames has placed an order for him in a shop in Piccadilly.

“Like in the song,” Solomon says without much thought, as they leave the flat and get back into the beautiful little lift.

“Which song?”

“You know,” he clears his throat and mumbles tunelessly, “ _ farewell Piccadilly, goodbye Leicester Square… _ ” 

“Oh yes!” James nods, delighted, “gosh, I used to hear the men singing that in the navy. Awfully heartening to hear, some nights.”

Fitzjames drives them to a place called the Burlington Arcade, where the shops are all very fashionable and very expensive. Solomon is astonished by the fancy articles on display - jewellers and tailors and milliners with velvet cloche hats in the windows; ladies gowns, black silk top hats and canes with ivory handles. When they reach the tailor shop Fitzjames has in mind, a man in a tall hat and black frock coat opens the door for them, like a butler.

Inside the atmosphere is very still. Young men move silently behind mahogany counters, quiet gloved hands stretching out tape measures or folding bolts of dark cloth. There are shelves and shelves of hats, all shapes and sizes, shining silver mirrors and glass cabinets full of pocket watches and cufflinks, glittering like pirate treasure. Fitzjames of course is in his element, and sallies forth with a cheerful satulation and a swaggering gait. He exchanges familiarities with the proprietor, an elderly man with neatly clipped white hair. The order was placed some weeks ago, and they have it ready to collect. 

Struck dumb and out of his depth, Solomon is politely but firmly herded into a dressing room by a one of the shop assistants, who closes the saloon doors behind him. Inside the cupboard-sized cubicle, he finds himself alone with his new clothes, draped over polished wooden hangers set on a brass hook. 

Solomon himself has little care for what is fashionable, provided the garment has enough wear in it, and so knew he would have a job choosing the right sort of thing from a catalogue. James does have a care, and what’s more he has an eye for it. The suit is light grey wool, thinly striped with shots of black, single-breasted and pleasingly simple. 

There’s a short stool in the dressing room bearing a pressed white shirt, and beneath that a cardboard box, inside which he finds a peaked flat cap in the same soft granite shade as the suit. 

“All well?” James calls from outside in the shop.

“Very,” Solomon returns, pulling off his everyday old brown jacket, “you needn’t have bothered with the hat.”

“Nonsense, I couldn’t leave you with only half an ensemble. That reminds me, we’ll need to get you a new tie, as well.”

“You choose one,” Solomon says, unbuttoning his shirt which looks yellowish and coarse, hardly white at all beside his sharp new one. 

He begins to dress, buttoning up the shirt carefully - the buttons are celluloid with silver backs, and feel very strange and slippery, not at all what he’s used to. The braces fasten with buttons too, and are leather and brown cotton - he thinks they are probably the first brand new pair he has ever worn, let alone the finest. The back of the waistcoat is a charcoal grey satin which he rubs between his fingers for a few moments before putting it on. Fully dressed he steps back into his shoes and opens the dressing room doors.

James is by the counter looking at ties and silk squares, and while his back is still turned Solomon takes the chance to catch himself in the nearest mirror. He blinks at his reflection in mild surprise. He still looks like himself - except he doesn’t, quite. He seems to be a completely different shape, the lines of the suit are sharp and fit him closely with enough room to move. He thinks he looks taller, somehow. 

“Very nice, sir,” the silver haired proprietor approaches him, reaching up to smooth his shoulders and adjust this and that, crouching down to look at the hem of the trousers. 

All this attracts James’ attention, and their eyes meet in the looking glass. Solomon smiles, to show that he is pleased, and James tilts his head, gaze raking him over before nodding, satisfied. He comes over with the tie and pocket square he has selected - both a deep forest green with dark stripes. Fully kitted out like any London gent, Solomon can’t help feeling some of Fitzjames’ irrepressible confidence for himself.

His everyday clothes are packaged up by one of the assistants, wrapped in tissue paper as if they are fine garments and placed in a navy blue box for them to take away. James settles the bill, and when they step back out into the covered arcade Solomon feels he has a different view of things - and that the world must have a different view of him. 

In fact, he is feeling so out of sorts that when he catches sight of a china shop on the way back to the car, he asks Fitzjames if they might stop in. Inside there are all sorts of curiosities; Chinese vases and antique clocks, piles and piles of pretty tableware he’s sure his sisters would be in ecstasies over. Eventually he finds a little milk jug, about the same size as the one Isaac broke, with rows of blue daisies painted around the rim. 

“A gift for my sister,” he explains when James arches an eyebrow at him. 

That is packed away safely with his clothes and paid for with his own money - after all, Jude and Isaac have had their shoes, Lydia ought to have something for herself too. Besides, he enjoys the thought that it might irk Bryant. 

“You really do look splendid,” Fitzjames says once they are back in the car.

“Sort of thing gentlemen wear to galleries, is it?” Solomon looks down at himself again, running his palm across the knee of his brand new trousers. 

“It’s the sort of thing Solomon Tozer wears to galleries, of that I’m very sure,” James replies, which makes Solomon laugh.

“As I have never been to one before today,” he muses, “I suppose you are right.”

“Never?” James says, aghast. 

“When would I have?” Solomon shrugs.

“Well, that settles things. We’ve a few hours before we’re due in Kensington, I say that’s just the thing to while them away.”

And off they go again, rumbling through the bright and sunny London streets in Fitzjames little green motorcar. 

He takes Solomon to the National Gallery of British Art, which is one of the most beautiful buildings he has ever seen. Set back from the broad banks of the river Thames and surrounded with lush green trees and neatly ordered hedges, it’s like a kind of temple, built in the classical style with a columned portico. At the very top of the triangular pediment sits Britannia with her trident and shield, flanked by a proud English lion and a rearing Scottish unicorn, and further back is a patinated dome. If the exterior pushes the very limits of Solomon’s imaginings, then the riches inside truly overwhelm him.

Together he and Fitzjames spend two full hours wandering through enormous echoing rooms with high windows and polished oak floors, staring at the hundreds of paintings crowding each wall. Every artist Tozer has learnt about from his magazines and his books he now meets in person - Gainsborough’s sumptuously dressed ladies, Turner’s stormy seascapes and blazing sunrises, Blake’s strange visions. He gazes at Hogarth’s hideous pug for almost a full twenty minutes.

“What a place,” he says to Fitzjames, standing in front of Millais’ Ophelia. (James insists he told him the story of Hamlet once, but Solomon can’t remember it; he probably hadn’t been paying attention).

“Do you like it?”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Of course, Phoebe’s father’s gallery is a great deal smaller,” Fitzjames says cautiously.

“I should bloody well hope so.”

He hopes he will be able to remember it all - and then hopes he will forget it as soon as they leave, for how can he ever settle back into Culswen now that he knows how many things it lacks? He is pensive on the drive to Kensington, the bold brush strokes and striking colours of the great masters sweeping through his mind as he thinks of his own trifling whittling - his wool gathering fancies now arrogantly cast in bronze. He begins to dread seeing them, sure that his own work can only be a disappointment after that. 

“Almost there,” James says cheerfully. They are driving up a long very wide road lined with beautiful red brick buildings tall as churches with glass shop fronts and crowds of finely dressed young women promenading along the pavement. They even pass an underground staircase with a sign across the railings which reads ‘High Street Kensington’. 

“Is that the underground railway?” Solomon asks, craning his neck to see people descending into the dimly lit passage.

“Yes,” James answers brightly, “did you want to see it?”

“No,” he answers quickly, a sick tug in his stomach at the thought of all those dark and stifling tunnels beneath them.

With a great sense of relief Solomon discovers that Phoebe’s father’s gallery - or the gallery he has the loan of, anyway - is not large at all, amounting to three downstairs rooms in one of the tall red brick buildings. 

Phoebe is not there, but a young man with a thin moustache wearing a black suit and spectacles presents himself as the curator of the exhibition. He speaks mostly to James, even when Solomon is introduced as one of the artists.

There are paintings already hung on the walls - all kinds of things from windswept landscapes to arresting nudes with pointed gazes. There is a collection of photographs taken in India and other far off places, and a set of very fine wooden sculptures of dancing nymphs. 

“Miss Harper-Brown left expressed instructions not to touch the bronzes until you’d arrived,” the curator says in his nasal voice, leading them through into the second room, where the walls are painted a fine sky blue. There are four wooden boxes at the centre of the room, each about thirty inches across and fifty inches high.

“Goodness,” James’ eyes widen at the sight.

“The plinths are here,” the young man gestures at four waist height wooden columns, painted the same blue as the walls. “I’ll send some men in for the heavy lifting.”

“Have you a crowbar?” Solomon asks, keen to get the boxes open as soon as possible.

The curator looks at him, perplexed, “I expect the workmen will,” he says, before leaving the room to fetch them.

The two stocky men in overalls and flat caps who arrive to assist are much better company, in Solomon’s opinion, for they treat both him and Fitzjames with the same blithe indifference. They do bring a crowbar, and make quick work of cracking the crates open, one after the other. Solomon bends over them eagerly, pulling away the dry packing straw, the scent of which fills the room with a sweet reminder of the familiar - of home.

It requires all four of them, Fitzjames included, to bear each piece out of its packing and onto its plinth. They stand shoulder to shoulder, arms straight and knees bent, huffing as they heave the first sculpture free.

It is the great horned head of a ram - Tom Hartnell's ram, as a matter of fact, a brutish beast responsible for more than one man's bruised ribs. Once installed it glares at the room, eyes wild and rolling like marbles, wiry wool and huge twisted horns giving it a fearsome aspect which pleases Solomon so much he almost forgets there are three more to come.

Next is a hare, sitting alert with it's tapered ears pricked, ready to rear up on its long back legs. The third is an owl taking flight, wings spread and round eyes fixed, clutching a dead field mouse in its talons. Finally a dead grouse, shot and fallen from the sky, wings broken and bent. Each is as he remembered carving it, only with life breathed in; the details he etched now beautifully picked out in glowing light and shadow. The bronze gives them all such a stately presence - the depth of the gold makes them look as though they could be warm to the touch.

"Shouldn't like to run into any of these in Edgware Road," one of the workmen says gruffly, eyes twinkling at Tozer as they leave, hefting the empty crates with them.

Once they are alone again, Solomon turns immediately to James, “well then?” he says, “you must tell me.”

“Solomon, they're marvellous,” he says, and it seems he means it.

“Not like any of your Greeks, I know,” he says, half apologetically, “not graceful or anything.”

“None of the grace but all of the accuracy,” Fitzjames cuts in, “they are honest. They're… they're so like you, and so like Culswen.”

"Aye, I hope they are," Solomon nods, smiling. He walks around them again, finding more to look at with each rotation. 

"You love Shropshire, don't you?" James asks him softly, following him with his eyes.

“Of course I do,” he replies, admiring the way the shadows fall. The shine is brighter than he imagined, so natural and animated. 

It was the right decision, he thinks. Even if nobody looks at any of them twice, even if they are the wrong thing entirely, they are his, and they are as he wants them to be.

Miss Harper-Brown does not make an appearance, and after admiring the sculptures from every possible angle nerves begin to overtake them both and they decide to leave ahead of the official opening at five o’clock, seeking out a public house. They find one, three times the size of The Ship with a high ceiling and cut glass windows. They stand at the bar with their drinks, Solomon's mind on the evening ahead. 

“The gang are all coming, of course," Fitzjames says, over his gin and tonic. "They're looking forward to seeing you again.”

“I don't know I've recovered from our last meeting,” Solomon snorts into the foam of his pint. It is warm, and tastes different from the stuff Gibson brews. 

“Unfortunately Dundy sends his apologies, he has a meeting with a representative from the League of Nations - I think they have asked him to speak on some topic or other. And of course Natasha has a performance. They did say they would try to meet us afterwards.”

“Afterwards?” Solomon swallows more of his drink, hoping to settle his thudding heartbeat.

"Yes, if you’re feeling up to it, there's a club we often frequent in Chelsea. They play jazz there - I think you'll like it."

"I see now why Miss Harper-Brown spends her mornings abed," Solomon laughs. In Culswen everyone will be finishing their work by now, looking forward to supper and an early night. It’s September, and the harvest is mostly brought in by now, but the days must begin very early and the work is very hard as they begin the task of preparing themselves and their crops for winter. 

The sun is lower in the sky when they leave the pub, but you wouldn't know it; the activity in the street has not let up, and if anything has taken on a more vibrant atmosphere as the street lamps begin to flicker to life. By the time they reach the gallery plenty of guests have already arrived, dressed in their finery and milling through the rooms, chatter buzzing and bouncing off the walls.

"Fitz, Solomon,  _ darlings _ !" Phoebe glides towards them with her white arms outstretched, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and kisses them both on the cheek. "I was  _ so _ sorry I missed you, I really feel just  _ hideous _ about it!" She says.

"Don't think on it," Solomon reassures her, hoping he isn’t too red from the ale. 

Miss Harper-Brown is as striking as he remembers her, hair shining black as oil beneath in the bright gallery lights and wearing a black shift dress with rows of golden sequins stitched in diagonal stripes across her waist, a long string of pearls around her neck. She clicks her fingers and a man in a black and white suit appears bearing a tray of champagne glasses, which he offers to Solomon and James.

"The statues are divine, utterly divine and utterly brutal," Phoebe gushes, waving her cigarette about. "That filthy great ram! Gorgeous, everyone who's seen it has positively trembled in it's presence.”

“Very kind I'm sure,” Solomon drinks to hide how pleased he is, better prepared this time to watch for the champagne’s effects. 

“Now, I really must dash, awful lot of people to talk to, but enjoy yourselves - and Solomon, darling, do make sure they know you're the artist. Fitz, introduce him to everyone, will you?”

And so the night begins, stretching out before them like a sea of sequins and glass and colour.

Everybody seems to know James. They greet him with wide arms and kisses and he, in turn, is loud and gregarious, and makes himself the most appealing figure in a room which is full of diversions. Solomon takes a curious pleasure in seeing this aspect of Fitzjames - the world he belongs to and his place within it.

For himself, Solomon is unused to crowds, and does not mind it if nobody looks at him. He knows it is good fortune which finds him here and is content to simply observe the evening. Hanging back, he allows Fitzjames to separate from him, and makes his own rounds of the artwork.

The rooms fill up much more quickly than he expected, soon so thick with bodies that it is hard to see much of the art unless you can get right up close. The temperature is rising too, and he finishes his first glass of champagne only to be swiftly offered another.

“Ah ha,” a voice pierces the murmuring crowd, and Solomon turns to see Guppy approaching, Giacomo at his side. They are dressed in ordinary clothes - or Solomon supposes ordinary for them, for they both are very stylish in stripes and boaters as though they are going to a picnic. “Mr Tozer, I thought that must be you.”

“Evening,” Solomon says, glancing over their shoulders to see where James has got to, without any luck.

“Goodness, what an improvement,” Guppy looks him over, “I see Fitz's hand at work here.”

“ _ Gah-ppy, _ ” Giacomo tosses his head, “be nice.”

“I'm  _ complimenting _ you, Mr Tozer,” Guppy says, so firmly that Solomon could almost believe he is being sincere. “Tell me, how are you enjoying London?”

“There is a lot to admire,” Solomon replies with care. 

“Haven’t lost that charming rural laconicism, I see,” Guppy smiles, and Solomon sees that it must be a kind of insult. 

“Thank you,” he says, raising his glass and finishing it. Willful ignorance only annoys men like Guppy; there is no recourse to it.

“I presume Fitzjames is here, somewhere?” Guppy asks, narrowing his eyes. “Loves an audience, doesn’t he?”

“Aye,” Solomon nods, now looking for another waiter for his third glass, “he does.”

He is quickly furnished with another drink, deciding that it will definitely be his very last, when a middle aged woman strides through the crowd towards them, arm raised in greeting. She has very short hair and is dressed in a tweed trouser suit. Like almost everybody else, she is smoking, but what is truly striking about this lady is her monocle, and the abrupt way in which she claps Guppy on the back.

“ _ Barrow _ , my dear boy, I thought you might be here. And with your dear  _ cousin _ I see," she nods at Giacomo who gives her a falsely friendly smile which makes it clear he does not care for her very much.

“One must always be somewhere, unfortunately," Guppy replies with a similarly bored expression.

"And who is this chap?" she peers up at Solomon, “have I met you?"

Guppy introduces him, "this is Mr Tozer, the artist. You won’t have met him before, he isn’t one of us - he is a  _ real person _ ."

“My word, you are, aren’t you?” she looks him over again, from head to foot. “Heavens, what on earth are you doing in this den of iniquity? You ought to run a mile, my dear.”

Once again Solomon finds himself without any idea how to respond. 

“Mr Tozer, this is Lady Wilhemina Sitwell,” Guppy says, then explains to the Lady, “Mr Tozer is visiting us from Shropshire - he is displaying his sculptures. The bronzes in the next room.”

"The dead bird and the rabbit?" she looks at him through her monocle.

"It is a hare," he replies.

She barks out a laugh, "quite right too. They're awfully vicious pieces, remind me of the grounds at Brick Hill, my childhood home. Excellent game there, this time of year. Are you a hunting man, Mr Tozer?”

“I have been known to, your Ladyship,” he nods cautiously, once more looking for Fitzjames in the crowd.

The stout woman laughs again, patting his arm, “call me Bill, my boy, you're an artist; you've no use for etiquette.”

Guppy's eyes widen at that, but Giacomo raises his glass and says, “hear hear!”

"Now, I know very little of sculpture. Oils I know all too well, but metal? Not a thing. You'll have to explain to me your process," the Lady - Bill - now takes his arm and steers him into the next room, leaving Guppy and Giacomo with little choice but to follow them. 

"My process?"

"Yes, what  _ drives _ you? What leads you to make such bold choices, that sort of thing."

She insists that he describe his motivation for every piece, asking him all kinds of questions. As they move between each sculpture Solomon becomes aware of onlookers listening in, and in time they ask questions too - about all manner of things, none of them quite to the point, in Solomon’s opinion. They ask him what his thoughts are, which artists have inspired him, and what he is trying to tell them with each figure. Is it a commentary on class? Is it a reaction to the war, or to industry, or are the animals perhaps emblematic of the true heart of England? He tries to be honest in his answers, but it is all very tiring. He isn’t used to so much interest. 

“Who trained you?” a man with a pen and notepad asks him, scribbling away.

“John Weekes,” Solomon says.

“I’m not familiar with him,” the man frowns, “is he well known?”

“Shouldn’t think so, he was the village stonemason before I was.”

“You mean you have had no schooling at all?”

“Of course I have,” he scowls.

“They mean  _ art  _ school,” Guppy says, rolling his eyes. “Tell them you are a self taught farmer’s son.” 

This causes a great deal of murmuring and excitement, and a flurry of further questions about how he ‘discovered his talent’. They will not accept that he simply practised at it, they seem to want more of a story. 

Fitzjames does appear, finally, and grants Solomon reprieve by taking charge of the conversation. He is accompanied by a good looking man with dark hair and a quiet manner, who is introduced to all as Mr Conningham, and apparently works as the editor of a travel magazine. Somehow Solomon gets the impression that the publication is concerned with slightly more exotic locations than Shropshire, judging by the very intense conversation Mr Coningham and James are having about the Middle East, and so at least the man doesn’t ask about his sculptures. 

Charlewood arrives very late and is brought over by Phoebe to be scolded in front of everyone and to make his apologies to Solomon. By now Solomon is drunk, and wishing everyone would be quiet for half an hour so that he can collect his thoughts and start to make sense of the day he has had. As it is, he barely hears it when Phoebe tells him that three of his sculptures have already been sold.

“And there has been a great deal of interest in the grouse,” she adds, “I expect it will be gone by next week.”

He asks her to repeat herself twice before he will believe it. Each statue was priced at more than a month’s regular wages, and he can hardly comprehend what this means for the rest of his year - or for his family.

“I can pay you for the suit even sooner,” he says to James when the group of them have finally left the gallery, and are waiting for a taxi to bear them away to what he is sure will be another crowded room.

“Buy yourself ten more, if you had the inclination,” James laughs - he is drunk, his voice louder than usual, his gestures broader. Solomon just smiles and smiles. 

They take a taxi to Chelsea, which cannot be more than two miles away, but Tozer has had so much champagne that he is privately grateful not to have to walk it, particularly through the dark paved streets which are so strange to him. 

The club they arrive at has some kind of French name, written in thin swirling script over the entrance, which is attended by a tall gentleman who seems to recognise most of Fitzjames' friends. They walk as a mob into a quiet lobby, where a young woman in red dress and pillbox hat takes their coats, and then on through two swing doors and into the most splendid ballroom Solomon has ever seen.

A glittering chandelier dominates the ceiling above the wide dance floor, and colourful lights dot each of the surrounding tables. Sweeping mirrors line one wall and paintings of dancing couples decorate the other, making the place seem even larger and busier than it is; a never ending party.

There is a black jazz band playing on stage, all dressed in blinding white suits with red carnations on the lapels, blasting out their brass instruments and hammering at the piano; filling the room with a thrillingly joyful energy. There are real dancing couples too - ladies like butterflies in their lovely ballgowns and gentlemen in smart black shoes whirling about the floor, bodies close and faces glowing with merry exertion.

Their party is shown to a booth which they all slide into, laughing and chattering. James orders champagne, and although Solomon is quite giddy enough he is ordered to drink by popular consensus, everybody reminding him that he ought to be celebrating more than anyone.

“Do you like Jazz, Solomon sweetheart?” Phoebe asks, leaning across the table. Charlewood is speaking to James, but he has his arm around her waist, so they seem to be on much the same terms as before.

“I can’t say I have heard very much,” he replies, having to raise his voice awkwardly, “I like this, though,” he gestures about.

“I’ll have to get you up dancing with me,” she winks, “show you off a bit.”

He holds up his hands, “I don’t know how to dance like that!”

“You’ll have to learn, if you’re going to visit London often - which I hope you are, after tonight, eh?”

He smiles politely, and thanks her again for everything she has done for him. He cannot countenance the direction his life has lately taken. Still, her suggestion that he may return to the city bring Bryant’s words back to him.  _ If that’s where the interest is _ . Rubbing the soft fabric of his new suit again he feels a pang of guilt which he drowns with more champagne.

The music is jubilant, and it is something to watch the dancing - caught up in all the excitement, Solomon thinks that if he did know how then he would certainly join in. The beaming register of the trumpet and the thud of the drums send adrenaline coursing through him, an urge to be a part of the night’s fun. In time Phoebe and Charlewood get up, and fall effortlessly into the throng, laughing and spinning with perfectly matched humour. 

Solomon finishes his drink and reaches for the bottle to pour more when he notices that Guppy and Giacomo seem to have excused themselves, and looks about for them. James catches his eye and leans over to speak in his ear.

“There is something else here I thought I might show you - but only if…" he looks down, almost bashfully, igniting Solomon's curiosity, "if you prefer to stay here, then we can.”

“If there’s something you wish to show me,” Solomon replies, feeling an exciting tightness in his belly, “then I should like to see it.”

They leave without telling Phoebe and Charlewood, who are obviously having a capital time on the dance floor and won’t miss them a bit. James leads him past the stage, behind a curtain and down a low lit corridor. They pass the gentlemen’s lavatory, and then turn away, music receding softly into the background.

Solomon pauses when they arrive at the top of a narrow staircase and he realises they are making for the cellar. But he is with Fitzjames, and so he ignores the way the air changes as it always does below ground, the slight drop in temperature and thick dull quiet of the walls. There is a man at the bottom of the stairs who Fitzjames says something inaudible to, and with a blast of noise and heat the door is pushed open and they are ushered quickly inside.

It is another club, hidden away beneath the first one, only a good deal smaller. There is a little corner bar with room for only one man to tend it, and at least forty people crammed into the rest of the space along with tables, chairs and settees hosting clearly intimate conversations. The lighting is low, it is hard to make out the features of anyone’s face unless you are very close to them. Almost everyone down here is a man, Solomon realises as James leads him in - though one or two are in dresses.

An impossibly beautiful young man with green eyes is standing by the piano, which is being played by a large curly haired lady smoking a cigar. She takes one hand off the keys every now and then to tap the ash into a tray on the piano lid, causing an irregular jarring gap in the melody which seems to dampen no spirits.

" _ I'm always doing something, something for the boys, _ " the young gentleman sings, leaning on the piano, rakishly, " _ I'm always doing something - for the lads, if it adds to their joys… _ "

Some of the drunker patrons at the back are singing along with raucous cheers, others are dancing, locked in shockingly amorous embrace with one another. Heads turn everywhere as James and Solomon cross the floor, and Solomon’s ears begin to burn self consciously. 

Fitzjames finds them a tall corner table to stand at, which Solomon finds preferable - somehow he doesn’t like the idea of sitting, or making himself too comfortable, as jolly as the mood of the room is. 

“Do you know what sort of place this is?” James asks him delicately.

“I think I can guess,” Solomon replies, swallowing, unable to stop staring.

“We don’t have to stay, I just wanted you to see it, really. To know about it - do you understand?”

“I think so,” he nods. He’d like another drink, but he isn’t sure how to ask. He spies Guppy finally, across the room, talking to a stranger. Giacomo is sitting in his lap, kissing his neck. Solomon looks away, mind reeling, and suddenly wonders whether Fitzjames brought him here in expectation of something. They have always kept this part of their friendship very private, it isn’t anybody’s business but theirs.

James waves down a waiter who winks at Solomon when he requests ale, and returns instead with two glasses of gin. The singing crowd reach their crescendo, and the beautiful man at the piano stretches his arms out just like at the music hall, “ _ so don't tell me it's a rum thing, if I'm out with 'em nightly till three - 'Cause I'm always doing something for the boys, or they're doing something for me… _ ”

“I wouldn’t want you to think I came here every night,” James is saying, “only from time to time, you understand.”

“I expect there aren’t many places to meet folk like this,” Solomon replies, trying not to drink his gin all at once. 

“No, indeed,” James is watching him cautiously, his dark eyes are large and searching, so that Solomon feels he is being asked to make a judgement, or state his mind. 

But he has hardly had a moment to think about anything, so much has he seen today. It all rushes up inside him; the Turner paintings and the chrysanthemums in the lift and the groaning buses, all of the wealth of the Burlington arcade and the thought of his own Shropshire treasures, each sold off to sit in the homes and gardens of people like Lady Bill.

“I have not seen so many new sights since I left for France,” he says to James, hoping he’ll understand. “I’ll have to sleep for a week after this.”

“I have rather bombarded you, haven’t I,” James says sympathetically. “Would you like to go home?”

Solomon knows that he means the flat in Bloomsbury, and not Culswen, and the realisation is too sharp to dwell on for very long, so he simply smiles and says no.

“I’m happy to share it with you,” he says, “if it’s what you want.” 

Another song starts up, and they talk a little more, and drink another gin. James speaks so vividly about the art they have seen, he lists the other galleries they could visit - and museums, and restaurants, and theatres, and every other kind of attraction available to them in London. He seems to think that now Solomon has visited that they will come again often. He has not considered the time Solomon will need to create new work, to finish the jobs he has already waiting. He has not accounted for Rhoda’s upcoming wedding, with all the family visiting, or harvest festival, or the simple fact that Solomon’s time is never truly his alone - he is needed in the village much more than he is needed anywhere else. 

He excuses himself to find the WC after a while, staggering up the stairs back into the main club. Another change of scenery which sets his head spinning, but at least the room is dark and the water from the taps rushes out blissfully cool.

On his way back he confuses himself - perhaps he mistakes a turn, because he cannot find the stairs to the cellar, and ends up somewhere near the back of the building, where an open door leads to the alley. 

Though it is very dark and there are delivery boxes and crates of empty bottles stacked up out there, in his present state the alley looks like a kind of haven to Solomon, and he finds himself drawn outside. He will take only a moment's rest, he thinks, and then go looking for Fitzjames. 

It is cool outside, and that is a blessing in itself. It is a good deal quieter than inside, but he can still hear the music from the jazz band, along with a cat yowling in another alley somewhere, the late night traffic on the street behind, and a woman shouting at her husband. He looks up and sees that Fitzjames was right; there are very few stars in London. Breathing in the night, he closes his eyes and thinks of home.

"Solomon?" James appears in the doorway, his face concerned, "is everything…?"

"Having a breather," Solomon turns and shakes his head. "May have got lost."

"Ah, easy enough to do," he steps half outside, "too much?"

"I can’t tell," he answers honestly. 

"I worried you might find it all rather…" James casts about for the right word and Solomon stops him, takes him by the hand and pulls him close enough to kiss.

James grins, exhaling against Solomon’s cheek and together they move further back into the shadows of the alley, where they will not be seen.

"Have I told you how handsome you look?" James whispers, stroking the lapels of his jacket and sliding his thigh between Solomon’s legs.

"Me or the suit?" Solomon chuckles, fingers in James' hair.

"Ha," James kisses him again, "both very much to my taste."

He's clearly keen to prove it, he presses against Solomon eagerly, hands wandering as he backs him against the wall at the end of the alley. Tumultuous as the day has been, this is one thing Tozer knows how to respond to, and his body is soon in firm agreement, pressing back against James' insistent thigh.

“Don’t you want to wait?” he grunts as James assaults his neck and shoulder, hot mouth and flicking tongue. In return Solomon grips him at the waist, pressing in his fingertips, “wanted to have you on those fancy sheets again.”

“All right, you can,” James murmurs, pulling back with a wicked glint in his eye. His hands slide down Tozer’s waistcoat, pulling his shirt up from his trousers, “but I want to have  _ you _ here, first.”

A flare of scorching arousal takes Solomon by surprise, settling at the base of his prick, making him gasp when he catches James' intention. "Really?"

"Yes," James whispers, "can I?"

Desire floods his belly, the most terrible and reckless urge. He nods, taking Fitzjames' hand again and shoving it down the front of his own breeches as evidence of his willingness. James grasps Solomon’s prick and kisses him again while Solomon begins to undo his belt.

Fitzjames is very obliging, taking time to kiss and caress him thoroughly for a good long while before Solomon is ready to turn about and face the wall. When he does, James unfastens the button at the back of his breeches and Solomon feels his braces slacken over his shoulders as his trousers are pulled down, drawers and all. Fitzjames releases himself too, and rubs his stiff prick against Solomon’s arse, making him gasp and start forward slightly. He tries to steady his breathing as he listens to James unscrewing the little jar of vaseline he seems to always have available. The squelching sound sends a thrum of nervous anticipation up Solomon’s spine. 

Perhaps he stiffens, because James wraps his arms around his waist and speaks in his ear, “we don’t have to,” he pants, “we can just…” he re-angles his hips and his cock slides between Solomon’s legs, slick and hard against his balls and the underside of his own aching prick. James rocks, making short, shallow thrusts as Tozer squeezes his thighs together, then gasps,

“I’m all right - go on.”

The moan James muffles into his hair is worth any embarrassment Solomon feels, and James begins to stroke carefully at him with his fingers. 

Shifting his hands on the wall and setting his legs further apart, Solomon is struck with the memory of the first time he permitted this. It took some coaxing from Fitzjames, but in the end he reckoned that it was only fair to try. There was an urgent thrill to it, and once he had relaxed into the indecency of such intimate exploration he’d found it more than worth the effort.

That is not to say he has ever become quite as adept at it as James, who will roll his hips and return each stroke with wanton relish, but Solomon is certainly not averse to taking his pleasure in this way, particularly when James is in the mood to, which he certainly seems to be this evening. His long fingers work their way into Solomon slowly, creating a wave of pressure which throbs outwards from his middle.

Moaning quietly, eyes closed, he settles into the furling and unfurling sensation, feeling the waves lap higher and higher towards breaking point before James carefully withdraws, judging him ready. He holds Solomon at the hip, stroking fondly with one thumb as he coats his prick again for good measure, then begins to enter him slowly.

It's all Solomon can do not to cry out at the delicious coarseness of it, the filthy stretching as he is filled with lustful need which sets him boiling beneath his skin; trembling down to his bones.

Once fully seated James begins to move, deep and then shallow, back and forth, his breath coming in short huffs against Tozer’s shoulder and neck. He's murmuring sweet, tawdry things, curses and affectionate oaths, his fingers digging into Solomon’s flesh.

His long powerful thighs press flush against Solomon’s, and the toes of his smart black shoes hook inside Tozer's ankles to keep his feet apart as he increases his pace. Solomon begins to see the glimmering edge of bliss stretching ahead of him like the horizon, growing thinner and sharper as arousal tenses in his muscles and he clenches himself taut to hold it off a little longer, pushing back against James. 

James seems to sense this quickening and returns his grip to Tozer’s prick, squeezing hard. With a shudder and a yelp, Tozer grinds into his fist with the next thrust, gritting his teeth as he begins to spasm and twitch, the frantic pounding of blood in his ears and his palms pressed flat on the rough brick wall. Fitzjames stiff prick drags up inside him and he leans forward, the change of pressure amplifying his pleasure to such heights that he bucks backwards again. 

"Christ," James rasps, pressing close enough for Solomon to feel his heartbeat through his waistcoat, "can you do that again?"

Solomon breathes for a moment and finds that he can, so he does. With renewed energy he is once again riding the knife edge of his climax as he arches forward and then back again, and again, until he is lost, mad with desperate passion. With James holding him tight, thrusting against his burning core with such vigor he thinks words he would never say out loud - _fuck me,_ his mind babbles, incoherent, _oh christ,_ _fuck me hard_.

With a cry and another uncontrollable shudder he spills over; all of the tension of the evening crashes down upon him like a thunderclap and he spends, toes curling in his shoes. Weakened and thrown off kilter, his hands slip against the wall, but Fizjames quickly reaches up, lacing their fingers together as he fucks up into him hard once, twice, three times, then quickly withdraws, rutting against Solomon's thigh, spurting onto his lower back with a ragged moan. 

Thoroughly wrung out and unbearably tender, Solomon allows Fitzjames to fasten his braces once more at the back, and then tucks in his creased shirt sloppily before turning and leaning back against the wall. James comes to rest beside him, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. 

“All well?” he says, his voice hoarse and thick with satisfaction. 

“Christ,” Solomon breathes, “so you can do it outside in London.”

Fitzjames chuckles, kissing his cheek, “what a night you are having.”

After a few more moments leaning together gathering themselves, they go to return to the cellar club, and just as they are about to re-enter the building another figure appears in the passageway. Fortunately, it is the silhouette of somebody they both know.

“Jim!” Mr Le Vesconte cries, delighted, “and Solomon, our honoured guest, I heard you were a triumph! Everyone is wondering where you are, and I was the only soul brave enough to go looking,”

“You’re here,” James smiles back, striding back into the light to meet him.

“Indeed I am - but you must come on, chaps, I’m afraid Guppy’s been obscene and they’re turning us out.”

“Christ, what has he done?” James mutters. Solomon cannot help wondering what is considered obscene in a place like this, as he adjusts his trousers one last time, hoping they will not stain.

Mr Le Vesconte’s car is waiting on the street, the doors are thrown open and Guppy, Giacomo and Phoebe are in the back seat, cackling like a flock of magpies. James climbs in with them, and Solomon follows, pulling the door shut behind himself. There’s barely any room, and Phoebe ends up half lying across Guppy and Giacomo’s laps, her long white legs kicking out over James’. 

“Where have you two been?”

“Never mind that, where are we going now?”

“To Dundy’s!” Charlewood calls from the front seat, where he and Miss Tarasova look far more comfortable. 

“No, no,” Guppy shouts, “let’s crash in on the Ritz again, that’s always good sport.”

“After last time!” Phoebe squawks, feet squirming and a sharp heel stabbing Tozer’s thigh. He yelps and Fitzjames gives him a sympathetic look, then surreptitiously rubs the afflicted spot with his long fingers. 

“I paid the bill!” Guppy is insisting, "they bled me dry over damages, but I  _ always _ settle it."

“I heard the Wellesbys in Pimlico are hosting a little soirée, thought we might try there first,” Dundy says, climbing into the driving seat and slamming the door shut, “right then!” He revs the engine, “hold on tight, chaps - chocks away!” 

Solomon isn’t sure he can stomach another venue, he is dazed by the lights rushing by them, and sags tiredly against James. He tries to put up a good show, knowing that Fitzjames hardly sees his friends, and Le Vesconte has only just made his appearance.

"What was it you were saying about the Tsar and Napoleon?" Phoebe asks Guppy as the car skids away from the pavement.

"Confusion to Napoleon!" Charlewood bellows from the front seat, and Le Vesconte squeezes the car horn three times, cheering,

"damn his eyes!"

"Yes, dears," Phoebe elbows the back of their seat. "Guppy - what picture?"

"As I say, a picture of Napoleon and the Russian Tsar sharing a rather sweet little kiss."

"Oh shut up," she laughs.

"I'm  _ telling  _ you. It was very well known at the time, the two of them were wild for each other. I keep a copy by my bedside, don't I Giacomo?"

"He does," Giacomo yawns, squashed somewhere between James and Guppy's shoulders. "It is truly pitiful."

"I could imagine it of Alexander," James puts in, diplomatically, "but old Boney? What about Josephine?"

"Perhaps he was an 'all rounder', like Shakespeare," Guppy replies.

"A what?" Tozer raises his head, something strange turning in his stomach. James' hand stops moving against his thigh.

"You know," Guppy says, pleased to be humoured, "like cricket - batter and bowler? I'm saying that perhaps Monsieur Bonaparte --"

"Damn him!" Charlewood yells.

"Aye!" Le Vesconte and James both cheer.

"-- enjoyed the pleasures of both men and women. Do you play cricket, Mr Tozer?"

"I…" Solomon's insides clench and he looks down at his lap. James' hand reaches for his, and he squeezes it.

"I say, Dundy," James leans forward at once and taps his friend's shoulder, still holding Solomon’s hand tightly, "would you mind awfully dropping us home?"

"Oh no, really?" 

"Lost your stamina, eh old man?" Charlewood laughs, "all that clean country living."

"I'm afraid so," James laughs pleasantly, and Solomon could kiss him right there, if only he was in his right mind. 

It isn’t long until they have arrived back on Fitzjames' street, and they are truly free of other people for the first time in what seems like hours and hours. Solomon feels an inexpressible sense of relief as the little yellow motorcar thunders away from them, the passengers all now singing  _ Rule Britannia _ at the tops of their lungs.

Alone, he and James pass through the over-bright lobby and get into the lift, already smiling stupidly at each other before the gates are properly closed. It's finally quiet; the carpet and pretty wallpaper deadening any intrusive sounds.

"Like being inside a chocolate box, this," Solomon says, the words slipping out unchecked. 

James laughs as he presses the button, "you poetic soul, you," he teases, bumping him with his shoulder.

Solomon grabs him at the waist, taking his hand and singing, silly and drunk, " _ I'm always doing something, something for the boys…" _

James catches on quickly, resting his head on Solomon's shoulder and falling into step. Singing off-key like moonstruck fools they cling to one another and waltz clumsily as the beautiful lift bears them upwards to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802" by William Wordsworth
> 
> Coming soon: A WEDDING - PHOTOGRAPHY - TROUBLE IN PARADISE


	8. A wedding (part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months late, but here we are. Hopefully I still have some readers left, and hopefully my change in username isn't too off-putting :)
> 
> It's James' turn to be a fish out of water for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should go without saying that some of the views expressed by a certain character on sexuality, class and gender in this chapter are intended to be 'of their time', which is the early 20th Century. Clearly they are not *my* views or opinions. I based most of it on E.M. Forster's writing, please bear in mind that he lived a hundred years ago.
> 
> Love and blessings upon the head of Kt_fairy, who makes this worth writing.

_ Come, sons of summer, by whose toil _

_ We are the lords of wine and oil: _

_ By whose tough labours, and rough hands _

_ We rip up first, then reap our lands. _

He tries to sit up, but Solomon pulls him back down into the pile of blankets. They smell of soot and woodsmoke, and of him.

“Not yet,” he murmurs against James’ skin.

The blissful quiet of the summerhouse lies softly about them, the charred logs cooling in the wood burner, birds murmuring in the trees outside as they come in to roost. The days are growing shorter, it's been noticeable this week - the evening light has taken on a thinner hue, the blue square of sky James can see through the window is watery pale, tinged with yellow.

"Bridgens will wonder where I am,” James says, lying back against Solomon without much argument, “we usually eat our supper at six.”

"What time is it now?" Solomon yawns into James’ shoulder, where his heavy head lolls sleepily. 

James reaches about on the floor for his wrist watch and holds it up squinting, "after five." 

"Bugger. I'd better be off soon as well."

Neither of them move. The old truckle bed is narrow and ramshackle, and missing one of its wheels - Solomon has propped it up with an old brick from the chimney, which James is certain will ruin the floor, but why complain. It isn’t built for two, any way you look at it; if Solomon was not half lying on him, holding him fast about the middle then James might very well tumble off.

Were it anybody else, James would already be trying to extract himself; he'd feel smothered. He remembers how when they were young Solomon used to hold James so tightly it shocked him. He was not used to it then; Solomon's brash proclivity for touch. It disquited him. He didn't understand at all, and privately thought it rather childish;  _ base _ . He attributed it to Solomon’s wild nature; his closeness to the earth, and probably thought himself quite the philosopher. There is much about Solomon he has been incorrect about.

He loves him for it now; the arms which are always open to him. In London James' bed was wide enough to sleep apart, and still Solomon reached across the empty space, rolled towards him and sighed with contentment when their skin met. He slept so soundly, and James stroked his hair and smiled in the dark. 

He ought to tell Solomon these things. Saying them aloud might provoke any number of reactions, but James wants to know - he wants to be sure. The moment for such a conversation never seems to arrive, and James - usually adept at articulating his wants and expectations - finds himself floundering. They have never discussed anything quite so close to the bone before. 

Solomon's breathing thickens and his arms slowly relax. He lets out a light snore and James twitches his ankle to jostle him awake. 

Clearly now is not the time - there is no reason to spoil a perfectly pleasant afternoon, and besides, they are both expected elsewhere. He teeters over the edge of the pallet again, reaching down and swiping about to find his cigarettes on the floor. His knuckles graze the cold tile, sending a shiver through him.

He sits up, stretching, rubbing the goosebumps from his arms. The fire is dying in the grate, but there’s no sense in stoking it now, they have to go. 

Now that the summer is ending, Tozer’s occupancy of the summerhouse as a studio has begun in earnest at ten shillings a week, paid each Wednesday. He insisted upon this amount (“you needn’t think I am hard up - made so much off those bronzes I've had to open a bank account,”) and James plays his part by tolerating it. 

The deal struck, Solomon came up one Saturday afternoon driving a hay cart he’d borrowed from a farmer, loaded up with all sorts. A workbench, tools, dust sheets, books, odd blocks of stone, blankets - and of course the second-hand bed. 

“I am here very late, some evenings,” Tozer explained sheepishly while Armitage, the odd-jobs man, was within earshot. So far it has not been slept in, to James’ knowledge.

It’s a compromise, really, James thinks to himself as pulls his shirt over his head before lighting his cigarette. Cadwallen Hoo proved unsuitable, and apparently the attic over the workshop has also been vetoed, because Solomon won’t talk about meeting there again. So here they are. James tries not to mind. There’s a warm nostalgia to the summerhouse, after all; this was always their place. Even if the only recognisable features left are the wood burner and the black and white chess board floor.

"Will you be back later?” he asks as Solomon climbs around him to get out, “to work on the statue?"

"Doubt it," he says, dressing, "ought to show my face in The Ship. Anyway, it’s almost finished."

“Is it?” James gazes up at the shape dominating the centre of the room, which Solomon keeps covered over with a sheet whenever James is visiting him. There’s a step ladder beside it, for it stands at well over seven feet high. He has used clay for the model, the clean earthy scent fills the air. 

“Expect I’ll send it off for casting at the end of the month,” Solomon says, “if I’ve time I thought I might go along to Shrewsbury to see how they do it.”

“Really?” James looks at him curiously. He has never heard of Solomon voluntarily leaving Culswen.

“Mr Weekes used to say that every working man ought to be acquainted with the general science of things,” Tozer nods, finishing typing his shoelaces. He stands and takes up a pipe lying idle on the mantelpiece, cleaning the bowl absentmindedly, “no matter his station, he’s sure to find the benefit of it. Always work with your head, as well as your hands, he’d say.”

“Sounds an awfully wise fellow.”

“He was, yeah,” Solomon smiles. “You getting up?”

“Yes, yes,” James hurries himself, dropping his cigarette in the cold cup of tea Solomon offered him when he arrived two hours ago. He buttons his shirt, then his trousers, and after that finds himself slowing down again. It’s comfortable in the summerhouse with two paraffin lamps burning, but outside it’s growing dark; a cold wind is surely blowing. They haven’t had much rain yet, but it must be on its way. Perhaps this is their last week of fair weather. He pulls his socks on, wishing he could lie back down again instead, or sit in the chair by the fireplace and smoke and watch Solomon work. 

Filled with heavy, practical artefacts and well-used, much mended furniture, the summerhouse no longer feels like the fragile shell of James’ adolescence - it feels like a home; a place of honest labour and peaceful rest. The opposite wall, once painted with naive pastel frolickers, is now being used as a notice board; Solomon has pinned up his plans and sketches for the statue, as well as studies of various other things he is working on. The show in London went just as well as anyone could have hoped; he sold all four pieces and has received further commissions - though he barely tells James anything about it, and will try to avoid the subject when it comes up. Perhaps he thinks James won’t understand - after all, a few magazine covers and perfume advertisements are nothing at all compared to the lofty career Tozer now has ahead of him. 

He seems to have been working on hands, lately, James sees from a pile of sketches left out on the table. There are all kinds of positions; clasped, splayed out, at rest, with attention variously paid to knuckles, the creases in the palms, nails, small scars and calluses. 

“Anyone I know?” James asks, holding up a sheet of paper when Solomon catches him looking.

“Tommy Armitage,” Solomon says, squinting. “Done a few of him, he’s good at keeping still.”

James nods, still leafing through the other scraps he can find. Hardly a piece of paper is left blank, every square of space has been utilised. A sketch of a round faced young woman with Solomon's blunt nose catches his eye next. "Lydia?" He guesses, though he’s never seen her.

"That's right," Solomon nods, looking pleased, "our Shropshire rose."

“Perhaps your next exhibition will be portraits.”

“Doubt there'll be another one.”

“After last time?” James raises his eyebrows.

Solomon shrugs, “They liked it because it was new, but it won't be next time. Anyway, they thought I was soft in the head. Uneducated.”

“Who did?” James tuts, “did somebody say something? Tell me who, I’ll knock them down.”

“I believe you would,” Solomon laughs. 

Buried beneath Lydia’s gentle face is the faint outline of another portrait - this time a fox-faced man with his head turned just so, as though he is listening for something. On the same page are a series of further hand studies, the subject engaged in rolling a cigarette, or gesturing with the index finger raised, the others curled down like an orthodox saint. 

“And who is this?” James asks.

“Someone from the pub,” Solomon shrugs, taking the papers from him and sorting them haphazardly. “I really must go.”

“Yes, me too,” James gives up, finding his shoes quickly and stepping into them, squatting to lace them while Solomon tidies away his tools carefully and turns down the lamps. 

"Done any drawing yourself?" Solomon asks as he shuts and locks the door behind them. It isn’t quite dark out, but the light is fading fast, and down here by the lake there is a chill in the air.

"Not lately,” James replies, “a few photographs - did I tell you I have a darkroom set up? I'm using the pantry for it."

"Enjoying it?"

“I think the pictures are all right. I must say, sometimes I find myself relishing the developing process rather more than framing the shots."

"I can see that," Solomon says evenly, "feels good to make something."

"It does," James smiles, pleased.

"You'll have to show me."

"Well. Perhaps next time you're at the house?"

Solomon gives him a look as he turns back, slipping the key into his pocket. For a moment James wonders if they're going to have it out - if they will address this boundary which has been so firmly set.

Solomon looks up at the sky, smiles, then rubs his hands briskly together, and the moment is gone. “This is the last time I'll be up for a few days, I reckon,” he says.

“Of course," James feels his nerve retreating. "The harvest.”

“Rhoda's wedding.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” James pauses, fidgets. He lights a cigarette. 

Solomon often brings up his time - and the scarcity of it - like this; accounting for it and allotting it like a factory foreman. James understands the message, though he pretends to ignore it. They will not be leaving Shropshire together again any time soon.

They leave the house behind them and follow the path around the lake to the parting in the trees. The sun is low, almost behind the hills already, the blue of the sky deepening into indigo twilight.

“As a matter of fact,” James says, still smoking as the yellow lights of Cadwallen Hoo’s kitchen windows come into view, “I might see you there - at the wedding. Reverend Irving asked if I would attend.” He has been dreading broaching the topic, hoping he could slip it in somewhere without too much fuss.

"He what?" Solomon frowns. “Why?”

"I think he's worried about my spirituality. I said I didn't mind attending special celebrations, Christmas and Easter, things like that, only that he oughtn’t to expect me every Sunday. I was trying to compromise. He asked if that meant I would be attending the Harvest Festival, and of course he'd caught me out there and I had to say yes. I didn't realise it would also be your sister's wedding until Irving mentioned gifts."

"I see," Solomon says. 

“I only mean to go to the service. ‘Show my face’, as you say.”

They come up through the trees and the lawn stretches out above them, up to the house. There is still a little way for them to walk together, along the box hedges, and there is no work going on at the house today, so it’s quiet for once. 

“You should stay as long as you please,” Solomon shakes his head, seeming to make his peace with James’ announcement, “it's a wedding. Mother will be happy to see you, at any rate."

"She'll be there?"

"Yeah, coming on the train with Hannah and Abigail and their families. That's why I shan’t have time to be up here again."

"You must be looking forward to having them."

"I suppose I am. Though I shall be hearing about it from Abby's husband - Mr Turnbull owns a liquorice shop in Pontefract and doesn't he love to harp on about it. Wears a bowler hat, reckons it makes him something."

They both laugh, and James feels that Solomon really means it - James will not be overstepping any boundaries in attending the wedding. 

"Will all of your family be visiting, then?"

"Almost. Jess can't get away, but Becky's been given two day's leave. Rhoda says she’s got a fella, reckon she'll be married next. Or Aaron, maybe.”

“Goodness, how old is he?”

“Nineteen, last March.”

“Awfully young.”

“Not really,” Solomon chuckles. “Mother always said we get fond too quick in our family. Abby and Hannah were the same. Lydia was that sweet on Bryant when she was fifteen, we could hardly tell her to wait - the war was the only reason they held off.”

“I see,” James nods, “and you yourself never ever… I mean, your thoughts have never turned to marriage?” He should like to know - he would like to  _ understand _ .

“Nah,” Tozer grins at him, “I was always too sweet on you, wasn’t I? Then it was the apprenticeship, no good having a wife you can’t support, then the war kicked off and… I dunno, I just settled into things the way they are.”

James stops, “do you mean that?”

“Course I do,” Solomon says, “stuck in my ways. You’ve as good as told me so, more than once. Who’d put up with me, eh?”

James doesn’t know what to say. There is such a chasm between the way Solomon behaves and the things he says. They near the end of the row of hedges, and their time together. 

“I won’t look for you until next week, then,” James says, trying to organise himself. “After Wednesday, perhaps?”

“Let’s play it by ear - I’ve a job to do at the church which will take a few weeks.”

“The church?”

“Aye, somebody agreed to pay for new arches,” Solomon smirks, “who did you suppose would be doing the work?”

“Ah,” James nods, remembering his promise to the vicar. That old familiar feeling of guilt rises again, and he can’t account for why. 

“Ought to stop worrying so much about what Irving thinks of you,” Solomon advises, reading his thoughts. “Does it matter?”

“Only sometimes, I suppose,” James replies. Solomon means well, but James thinks it rather rum, when after all Tozer seems to care a very great deal about what the rest of the village thinks. 

They say a brief farewell, and James checks that his shirt is tucked in neatly and every button done up before progressing uphill to the house. He wonders what is for supper, then wonders what Solomon will be eating. What food is his favourite, and does he have it often? Of course, if he knew such things then he wouldn’t feel as dreadful as he does now.

There’s a definite nip in the air as he approaches the house, and the ghostly moon is visible in the sky, though the sun has not yet set. It is curious; James has not spent an autumn at Cadwallen Hoo since he was a boy of eleven or twelve. For him, September always heralded the start of school, and his memories of it are filled with fresh composition books, fountain pens and ink pots, the smell of chalkboards and the musky polish of the assembly hall floor. 

The weather is the only thing that changes in Culswen. Even the renovations James has made to the house - whole rooms empty and repainted, floors swept and mould vanquished - have done very little to lift his spirits. How will it be when the weather is dismal, and the rain clouds roll in? There is a new theatre season beginning in London, all of his favourite restaurants must have changed their menus now, there will be new styles for dresses and coats and shoes and hair, and he knows nothing about any of it. To cap it all, Dundy is in Paris for the month, which makes him almost entirely unreachable, compounding James’ isolation.

“Just admit you're not cut out for playing the squire and come back to London,” Phoebe said to him, the last time she called, “I’m not going to listen to you complain about an exile which is  _ entirely _ self-imposed, honestly it’s too maudlin.”

“You don’t understand,” James returned, stung, “I have duties.”

“I liked you better before you were only an heir. Didn’t give a fig for duty then.”

“That's not true at all.”

“Invite somebody to keep you company. I’ll lend you Ned for a weekend, how about that? Or Will Coningham - you know he won’t shut up about you since the gallery, you certainly made an impression.”

“Hardly.”

“You did and you know you did. Whenever I see him he asks after you. Thought for a while he might be one of those, but apparently he has a wife somewhere. Hero worships you, at any rate. I showed him some of your covers for The Lady.”

“You didn’t,” James winced.

“The ones I modelled for - why shouldn’t I! Anyway, he liked them.”

“Everyone likes them,” James sighed, “that is the point of advertisement.”

“If you’re going to start Guppy-ing me then I’m hanging up.”

In fact James had already been talking to Will Coningham before Phoebe raised it; they’ve exchanged a few friendly letters and spoken on the phone once or twice. Will sent him a pile of his past magazine editions to look over, and James can hardly bear to open them - the covers alone make him heartsick and bitter. Photography from all kinds of far off places; Japan, Australia, Canada, Polynesia, Morocco. “ _ Do you enjoy travel?” _ Coningham always asks eagerly.

The last time he telephoned he mentioned an advance, if James was interested -for a month in Cairo. James' immediate instinct was to say no, it was out of the question; he simply could not pack up and swan off to Egypt, not with all the work to be done in Culswen. But he didn't say no, to his own surprise. He said he would think about it. He thanked Will profusely. 

James always intended to travel - and to enjoy it too. Of course his father insisted on Cambridge first, and after that the war got in the way. He supposes he hasn’t an excuse for the intervening years, except that there was too much else distracting him in London. 

He has told himself many times that he ought to be grateful to find himself in Shropshire now, where he may give himself time to think and make a decent start on the next stage of his life. Seeing Solomon succeed in his sculptures so quickly and so effortlessly makes him wish he could carve out his own niche. Only he can’t seem to get started - even with all distractions removed.

And now it is practically autumn; the frost will come in soon and he faces a grim winter at Cadwallen Hoo with no more direction than when the war ended seven years ago. 

He looks up at the house. It will be dreadfully draughty when the mercury drops, especially now he has removed most of the rugs and drapes. Perhaps that was hasty, Bridgens did caution him about it. How much coal does the place need, he wonders, to be heated satisfactorily in winter? They’ll have to shut up a lot of the rooms, he expects.

James thinks about Cairo again.  _ Egypt _ . Things are ticking away all right at the house, he could easily leave Bridgens and Peglar to run the place for as little time as a month. In fact he's sure they could manage longer, as long as he kept an eye on his correspondence - say two months each year for travelling, then split his time between developing all of the pictures and attending to other business. That might not be such an awful life. It would be some freedom, anyway. 

As he reaches the patio James spies Mr Peglar turning the corner from the kitchen garden. He is pushing an empty wheelbarrow and whistling to himself. He stops when he sees Fitzjames, lowering his eyes.

“Ah, Peglar, just the man,” James waves as he approaches.

“Sir?” Peglar sets down his wheelbarrow carefully on the patio, tilting back the brim of his hat to wipe his brow, then pushing it forward again, brushing his hands on his muddy trousers.

“I wonder if you knew about the wedding in the village this Sunday?”

“Aye, sir, Tom Hartnell and Rhoda Jakes,” he nods, blinking as he does.

“Yes, excellent. I wonder if we might send down a bouquet for the bride? Might we have something suitable in the gardens?”

“We’ve had some good fortune with the late flowering perennials,” Peglar casts a glance over his shoulder at the walled gardens behind him, “Japanese anemones - very like poppies they are, sir, only pink and yellow, not red and black. And the hydrangeas all came up white as snow this year, they’d look very bonny - and some very fine larkspur just bloomed.”

“Very good, I’ll leave it with you, then,” James agrees, pleased with himself. “Will you be attending the wedding, Mr Peglar?”

“I will, sir. And yourself?”

“Yes, indeed,” James pauses, thinking, “ought I to take a gift, do you think? What sort of thing would be appropriate?”

Peglar blinks again, clearly surprised to be asked, “well, sir, Lord Gambier - that is, the late Lord Gambier, he’d send a ham down for village weddings.”

“Would he! Well then, I’ll have a word with Bridgens. Good day, Mr Peglar,” he nods and strides briskly away, as though he has a thousand things to be about.

A bouquet and a ham, that will be very fine. He’s glad he asked, he would not have thought his father capable of that kind of generosity, and certainly would not want to come up short if they were ever compared. It isn’t the kind of thing he could ask Solomon, who will only tell him to do what he thinks is right, without regard for what others expect. He and James have very different opinions on what constitutes being a good landlord.

Besides, James has more reasons besides Tozer for wanting to make a particularly good impression at the wedding. After months of putting it off, he finally cracked into his father's bureau, only to find years worth of unopened letters from the tenants - lists of poorly maintained roofs and cracks in walls, lack of running water and petitions to extend the school building for scholars wishing to stay on longer and take their School Certificate exams. 

At first he was furious, and ranted to Bridgens for a full hour while trying to sort through the mess, but now all James feels is the heavy burden of hereditary shame. He is determined to put it right.

* * * 

They hold their weddings on Sunday, James realises, because that is the only day they are not at work. On his early morning walks he can hear the cows in one of the farms being herded for milking, their mournful lowing rolling around the valley basin, reaching him even at the top of his hill. Besides that, Culswen seems to be sleeping in; the fields are empty and Cadwallen Hoo completely silent without the workmen. 

Even Bridgens is nowhere to be found - it is his day off, and James never enquires into how he will spend it, considering time spent at leisure to be a man’s private business. Mr Peglar seems always to be working, and assured James last night that he would cut the flowers and deliver them to Rhoda first thing in the morning. James supposes that means she must have them by now. As he drinks his coffee and reads the paper in the wide echoing kitchen, he can’t help trying to picture how Solomon’s morning is going, and how it must be a great deal noisier than his. 

He has been into the village before, of course; fairly often as a boy, for church and to run errands for the staff. He knows the butcher shop, the grocer’s, the post office, even the pub. He doesn’t think he has ever been inside one of the cottages. He’s been looking at the deeds and specifications for the past week - those which belong to him, anyway, which is well over half of the dwellings in Culswen. They are hardly modern homes; most were built in the 1700s, and as far as hot water and indoor plumbing, they have had little attention paid to them since then. James makes a note to ask Solomon about the condition of his family’s cottage and wonders that he never did before. 

At nine o’clock he washes his dishes and his coffee cup and then goes upstairs to dress. There is still no sign of Bridgens, and James feels a queer tightening in his throat when he realises that he likely will not speak a word to another living soul until he reaches the church. He thinks by then he shall be ready to talk the reverend’s ear off, the man’s nervousness be damned. 

He chooses a light grey tweed to wear - nothing new, and perfectly agreeable for the mild early autumn weather. One of the workmen's girlfriends came up from the village yesterday for lunch, James accidentally caught them kissing behind one of the barrel hedges. She'd winked at him as she hurried away, bowing her head and grinning with a kind of giddy triumph. She'd been wearing the loveliest blouse; cotton, with ivy embroidered on the cuffs and collar. James has a similar, plainer blouse neatly folded away in a drawer in London. He wishes he had it now - he brought none of his everyday clothes of that sort with him to Cadwallen Hoo, only flashy things for costume, and to remind himself that he still  _ could, _ if he wanted; it was his damned house after all.

He wonders how Dundy is enjoying Paris. Le Vesconte has sent one or two missives from across the Channel, detailing various conferences and dinners and outings - though mostly complaining about his separation from Miss Tarasova, James and ‘Jolly old Blighty’, in that order. James is green about it; Paris is magnificent any time of year. 

He thinks about Coningham’s magazine again, six editions of which are stacked neatly on the desk in the study. He has looked through them quite thoroughly now, in between his administrative responsibilities and attempting to bring his father’s affairs to some kind of order. They have proved a very decent kind of escape, though he does think that the magazines must be responsible for how vivid and uncanny his dreams have become. He feels such a terrible desperation to leave, sometimes, to  _ really _ escape. Often he awakens in the night and thinks about getting up and going down to his car, just driving off. Once or twice he has even dressed and found himself standing in the hall, staring at the bolt on the front door. He always changes his mind. It feels like cowardice.

He has not had a word from Solomon since they parted three days ago. Of course he didn’t expect anything, not really.  _ Too sweet on you, wasn’t I? _ What a thing to say. It rattles around in James head, popping up at the oddest moments. On the nights that he makes it to the front door, before returning to bed he walks around the back of the house to see if the light is burning in the summerhouse windows. He never sees anything. 

He’s behaving foolishly, and he wishes that somebody would tell him so. He wishes that anybody would tell him anything. 

James has not felt this much at sea since his first year at Cambridge. How mawkish James had been then, how appallingly soft hearted and naive. He wonders now if it is Solomon or Shropshire he ought to blame, for he feels the same juvenile idealism creeping in sometimes, and must remind himself that he is not a youth in the first flush of love anymore, but a grown man with responsibilities. They have each other often enough; Solomon is kind to him, and still treats him with the same affection and friendliness he always did. He gives as much of himself as he can spare; that must be what he’s trying to communicate to James when he mentions how much work he has, or how little time. 

If only there were more opportunities to get away. It needn’t be London all the time; James could be just as happy in Paris, or Rome, or even  _ Cardiff _ , as long as Solomon would agree to come too. Nothing is ever as simple as it ought to be. Guppy warned him of it, very early on. “Prepare for a lifetime of disappointment, my dear,” he purred, barely twenty years old and already made shrewish and jaded by public school. “Disappointment and heartbreak.”

James scoffed at him then, being eighteen and therefore wont to scoff at any opinions that were not his own. He recalls a particular conversation from the first term at Cambridge, after one of Dundy’s late supper parties. They’d all got dreadfully tight on a case of champagne one of the Le Vesconte aunts had sent as a present, and were lolling about on the settees in Dundy’s parlour like a pack of sleeping lions. That was before they met Phoebe, otherwise James expects they’d have been dragged out dancing instead of drunkenly philosophising. 

James was on the hearth rug, lying on his back and watching the ceiling rose spinning above his head. Dundy was winding his record player, Charlewood half dozing on the couch, letting out little grunts and snores every now and then and trying to pass them off as clearing his throat. 

Guppy sat in the big green leather armchair, enthroned like a biblical despot, malice and excitement gleaming in his eyes as he decried  _ the love that dare not speak its name _ .

James, drunk though he was, was not beyond keeping up, and certainly not beyond a spot of intellectual sparring. 

“--but according to  _ you _ ,” he protested, rolling his head back on the rug to look up at Guppy’s smug black eyes, “homosexual relationships are the highest form of love. You have said so more than once!”

“Of course they are,” Guppy replied, raising his chin with great relish, a cobra rearing his head and preparing to extend his fangs, “it is the only way to achieve  _ true _ love - by which I mean an entirely spiritual union; a union which transcends the physical. Such a thing is entirely impossible between a man and a woman.”

“I say, old chap,” Charlewood argued, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, “I think I find that rather objectionable.”

“Of course you do,” Guppy waved a dismissive hand, “but your objections don’t make me any less correct. Now - what is the purpose of heterosexual relations, hm?  _ Procreation _ ,” he didn’t wait for a response, and Dundy and Charlewood remained tight-lipped, clearly resigned to a lecture. “If we all agree that sensuality detracts from spirituality - and the western tradition  _ does _ concur with me on that, Le Vesconte, so you can stop puffing your cheeks at me - then of course a man and woman cannot enjoy a  _ purely _ spiritual union, which ought to be the ideal.”

“Ah, so are you saying there is no sensuality between two men?” Charlewood challenged again.

“Of course not,” Guppy rolled his eyes, “but without the need to procreate and pass on the family wealth, then a union between two men can  _ only _ be driven by love for one another. Therefore, homosexual love is  _ by its very nature _ more open to sacred understanding.”

This opinion was roundly shouted down, but Guppy refused to concede. “Once you remember that women are inferior to men both intellectually and spiritually, then--”

“Now see here!” Dundy apparently had reached his limit, “you’re speaking nonsense, and we’ve had our fill of that this evening. Let us all agree that there may be benefits to all kinds of love, and close the matter there.”

Guppy was not satisfied by this of course, but he knew when to acquiesce, and so let the subject alone for the remainder of the evening. James was not satisfied either, and picked it up again when the two of them were back in his rooms, alone. 

“And equality?” he pressed, feeling he had to get to the root of the problem one way or another. “Surely that must be the mainstay of this ‘sacred understanding’ you speak of?”

“My dear,” Guppy purred, untying his cravat, “there is no equality in this world, and nor shall there be in our lifetime. Surely school taught you that.”

“I suppose it did, but then I do think that college has taught me--”

“Oh, pay no mind to anything you learn here, it is all flattery and bluster.”

“But do you mean that you cannot see any way to a mutually agreeable union between two men, then?” James said, aware he was beginning to sound rather petulant about it. 

“Ah, but mutual agreeability is not the same as equality, is it?”

James pressed his lips together. “I think it is.”

“Then you’re an idiot, Jim dear. In fact, for men like us the only mutually agreeable relationship possible is one with inequality at its core.”

“Meaning?”

“One must always have something on the other. To seek a relationship which will most benefit two men, the lover must require something of his beloved; one man must be the patriarch, you see, just as in marriage.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“If you absolutely must seek out  _ love _ ,” at this Guppy shook his head to demonstrate that he considered such a pursuit frivolous and absurd, “then as a man who loves men, it is better to find a younger man, or else someone from the lower classes. They are always dreadfully obliging and forgiving about such affairs.”

Of course James’ first thought was of Solomon, which only troubled him further. “Then you don’t think two men of different classes could call each other equals?”

“Of course not,” Guppy laughed, “look here, I used to rough-house with the garden boys too, that is all part of a young man’s natural development. But you must never mistake such childish affection from that sort for true feeling. They don’t have feelings, not in the way we do.”

“You and I are not equal, then,” James said glumly, “according to your philosophy.”

Guppy looked at him for a long time, an eyebrow raised, "we weren't," he said finally, "when we met. When the Michaelmas term had just begun and you were new, I your senior. But you've grown popular, I admit. You charm everybody you meet.”

"Oh, shut up."

"You do, and what's more, you're pleased I've said so. You're pleased I have confirmed it for you."

James glared at him.

"Yes, you see," Guppy grinned, bending over and kissing the tip of his nose. “At first it was enough that you are so handsome, but now you’re in with Le Vesconte and Charlewood and the rowing crowd your star will only continue to rise. It will ruin us, most likely. When we are truly equal then I know I shan't be able to stand it."

“What a thing to say to a man. I thought we were fond of each other.”

" _ James _ ," Guppy sighed, "my sweet friend. I really find your naivety much too wonderful."

Guppy’s prophecy was self-fulfilling; it became his excuse every time they careered into an argument together; any time even the pettiest disagreement crossed their path he would fling himself to the ground and bemoan the tragedy of their similarities. He never once considered their differences, which to James became steadily more insurmountable. 

Perhaps it was very easy to decry equality, James thought, when one could not open one’s mind to it. Similarly it was very easy to condemn lust when one hated oneself for feeling it.

It was not James’ increasing popularity at Cambridge, but Guppy’s hatred of himself - his hatred of his desires and inability to ignore them which truly ended James’ fascination with him. He could not ever bring himself to be kind to James, because to do so he would have to give ground; to admit that there was a part of himself which sought something impure and unsacred. He would have to come down to James’ level and be naive and inferior. It hurt James, at the time, very deeply - to have felt so much for one so unfeeling. 

Of course, Solomon was  _ all _ feeling - James never agreed for a moment that their ‘childish affection’, as Guppy termed it, had been anything less than wonderful, and keenly felt by both parties. Still, the more people he met at Cambridge, and the more he learnt of the world, the less James felt he could relate to the youth he had been, and the boyhood of perpetual summer and mutual adoration he had left behind him in Shropshire. 

In those days he was still 'green'; he looked at Guppy, already in his second year at Cambridge, as someone wise in the ways of the world, and somebody he could learn a great deal from. They had enough in common; their sex, their breeding, their love of good conversation and irregular company. Both felt they had been badly treated thus far by the world; that they had drawn a bad lot somehow, but while these nursery hurts had only emboldened James to carve out a life for himself, to  _ make _ a place if need be, Guppy was filled with nothing but disdain for anyone unlike himself. He was vigilant against attack, certain at all times that it must be coming, and so made sure always to strike first.

So it was when he ended things with James, right in the middle of Lent term, claiming acerbically that James' interest in and acceptance by the world only proved that he lacked the purity required for a true sacred union. The implication being that he was base and unworthy of the Greek ideal, too dependent on 'foolish sentiment'. He had the gall to say that James was the one ashamed of himself. It grew into a filthy row, the pair of them spitting and hissing at each other, both aiming to tear the other down. 

They didn’t speak for weeks afterwards, but eventually, slowly, they became civil once more, and never spoke of it again. Guppy knew too much about him, and James would never reveal as much of himself to anyone else. The remainder of the college year James spent in a kind of sexual flux - he did not seek out anything more than physical encounters, and he surrounded himself with enough friends to protect his pride and his vanity. He was perversely grateful for the war, at first; the purpose it gave him and the sense of duty and allegiance he had never really felt for anything before. He often wondered if he'd have been better off staying in the navy.

But the navy was for third sons and mistakes, and by the time the war was over James was neither to his father. 

That was years ago of course. Now it seems Guppy has found love after all, James reminds himself as he prepares to leave for the wedding. How very like him, the hypocrite. And while Giacomo may very well fit the picture of the Greek ideal - a younger man, a foreigner of dubious breeding and limited funds - nobody could spend time around them and call them unequal in any sense that truly mattered. James wonders if his philosophy has changed, but he won’t ask - he wouldn’t dredge that misery up again, especially considering that Guppy and Giacomo are one of James’ rare glimpses at something he yearns for desperately himself.

Oddly, as James leaves through the kitchen (hoping to bump into Bridgens but finding him absent) he thinks of Bill and her girl, Agrippina. They have lived together for a good many years, and are close in age and social station - Bill an heiress art collector and ‘Ripper’, as she is known to the inner circle, the sixth daughter of a Lord, and a champion equestrian. Of course, James reminds himself, as he sets off towards the village, the world looks very differently upon women who live together.

These are dour thoughts, he tells himself; and today is a celebration. He fixes his sights on the church spire, narrow and black against the fair blue sky. It’s a beautiful day, and as lonely and silent as his big creaking house may be, he’s certain there is happiness ahead of him.

* * *

The church of St Milburga is one of the oldest buildings in Culswen, the central structure having been built some time in the twelfth century. Though by no means large for a church, it still towers over the rest of the village, built from pleasant soft grey weathered granite with a spire which was added on in the 1700s, if James remembers his lessons correctly. 

The surrounding graveyard is very pretty in the sunshine; lichen splattered tombstones press together for space, the grass is green and well fed, the ground uneven from centuries of village burials. James’ stepmother and father are interred inside the church itself, of course, along with the previous generations of Gambiers. His half brothers have a memorial inside, but their bodies were never repatriated. 

There is a crowd already gathered just inside the low churchyard walls as James progresses up the main thoroughfare - it must be almost the entire village. All reservations about the ceremony are quickly dispelled as the general noise of the wedding guests reaches him; a cheerful humming of chatter, children’s high voices and women’s laughter. The gruff working men of Culswen have polished their watch chains for the occasion; shined their shoes and donned their best jackets, while their wives and daughters are vibrant in gay coloured dresses with lace trimmed collars and straw hats adorned with wild flowers.

Broadening his shoulders and carefully arranging his features into a friendly expression, James approaches with more eagerness than he expected to, keen to slip at least somewhat seamlessly into village life, and reminding himself that after all, he is a son of Culswen too, even if that is only half of him.

Many of them turn to look at him as he arrives, and a sort of ripple wends its way through the crowd - a nudge with an elbow, a whisper behind a gloved hand - and one by one each villager turns their curious face towards him, nodding in cautious recognition. 

“Good day,” he says brightly to no one in particular, and one or two of the men who have done work at Cadwallen Hoo in recent months return the greeting. 

He wonders fleetingly what they must think of him; the bastard son newly returned from London, ripping out all of the insides of his family home. James presses this thought firmly down, smiling again. He has generally found in unfamiliar situations that it’s best practice to go in positively beaming - then nobody can have any complaints except that one is too jolly, and it would be a very miserable soul indeed who took a dislike to him for that.

Fortunately he is not without company for very long.

“Well now, Master Fitzjames!” a voice crows out from his left. He turns to see a stocky middle aged woman weaving towards him through the gathered families, a great wide smile on her broad face. She opens her arms like a favourite aunt as she reaches him, and he feels a strange pulling sensation in his chest that makes his eyes burn. 

“Mrs Jakes,” he returns her embrace, bending down to let her kiss his cheek. 

“Look at the size of you!” she says in her bright singsong Welsh accent, squinting up at him with her hands on his arms. “Always were a beanpole, weren’t you? Are you well?”

“Very well,” he says, more pleased to see her than he could have expected. She is much as he remembers, though her fair hair is now showing more threads of grey beneath her neat blue cloche hat. “And yourself--”

“Oh I am glad,” she smiles, “we had your flowers arrive at the house - if you could have seen the fuss you caused! As if our Rhoda hadn’t been putting on airs all morning.” She chuckles. “And the ham! Very thoughtful of you.”

“It is a pleasure,” James smiles back, his confidence increasing by the moment.

Solomon’s mother is accompanied by a gaggle of women of varying ages James can only assume are her daughters - the elder girls are fair, like Solomon, while the younger ones - presumably the Jakes siblings - seem to have longer faces and darker features. Children run in and out between their legs like bees about a flower bed; a hive of nieces and nephews and cousins. 

James is introduced to everyone in turn, finally putting a face to the names he has heard Solomon tell him for years - Hannah, Abigail, Lydia, Rebecca, Martha - and apologies from Jessica, whose work has kept her away, (“a secretary, would you believe it, Master Fitzjames? When I can hardly write down my name. They can all read, my girls - our Abby often writes up the accounts for her husband - she does all the numbers in her head.”) Judith is brought forward last, and James remembers to shake her hand this time. She gives him a rare smile and then returns to scowling, arms folded firmly across the front of her periwinkle blue dress.

Then there are Hannah and Abigail’s husbands to meet, along with Solomon’s two brothers, Aaron and Isaac, who look nothing like him at all. By the end of it all James is struggling to keep the list of names organised in his head, and he is grateful for the hand Mrs Jakes has tucked into the crook of his elbow, steering him about the churchyard as though he is her own son. 

“You won’t hurry off after the wedding, will you Master Fitzjames?” she says, “you’ll stay for some cake?”

“It’s Lord Gambier, mum,” Judith says, trailing behind them, “Sol said not to call him Fitzjames.”

“Oh, I’ll call him what I call him - he doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, do you, Master Fitzjames?”

“Not at all,” James says, and hopes he sounds as certain as he feels. What a blessing, to be remembered for nothing more than having been a polite youth. He begins to think he will have rather a lovely day after all.

She doesn’t let him go, even when the church doors are opened and the family begin filing inside.

“Well I say,” she hums merrily as they step through the little porch and into the nave, “I haven’t been in here since our Lydia was married. That was the same year Her Ladyship died. Heartbroken, she was.”

James nods vaguely. 

“I remember how she was with you,” Mrs Jakes eyes him. “Difficult thing, for some women. Still, we won’t speak against the dead, eh? All in the past.”

There is a Gambier family pew at the front of the church nearest the altar, and he knows he is expected to sit there, but he can’t bear it alone, “would you be so kind as to join me, Mrs Jakes?” He gestures.

She looks at him as though he has just handed her something precious , and for a moment he rather wishes he  _ had _ brought some kind of gift for her.

“You were always such a good boy,” she chatters as they take their seats. There isn’t enough room for the entire clan, but the rest of the Tozer-Jakeses manage to arrange themselves about their mother; passing babies over the backs of pews and addressing one another in stage whispers as they shuffle in. 

“Leave room for your brother!” Lydia hisses over Judith’s shoulder. 

“All right, all right,” Jude mutters back with a put-upon sigh. She has settled in beside her mother, in the front row with James, and they all move up to leave an empty seat at the end of the bench. 

James can’t help observing them discreetly as he thumbs the worn out bible on the shelf in front. He had thought the Le Vescontes were boisterous in their bohemian liberalism, but the Tozer-Jakeses are unlike any family he has ever met. Of course he knew their names before now; he knew how many of them there were, but it is something else altogether to find oneself in their midst. He feels at once ignored and scrutinised; a guest and an invader.

“Such a good boy,” Mrs Jakes is still saying. She has released his arm and is gazing cheerfully up at the plain altar table, decorated with a simple wooden cross and an embroidered cloth. “Good natured, you were, so polite. And so good for my Solomon; brought him out of himself a bit. God knows he needed it, eh?”

At Solomon’s name he dares to glance at her, but she is still admiring the church, "yes,” he agrees, “we got up to all sorts. He was a wonderful friend."

“Boys need to have friends," she nods wisely, "my two after Solomon - they had different fathers, but they were so alike. Always had each other for company, so I never worried. I was sorry for my Solomon, he was a quiet lad.”

James isn’t sure what to say. He wishes very much that Solomon was present, and could give him some direction, perhaps. Mrs Jakes is lost in reminiscing, “Joshua and Samuel, they were quiet too, but they were always together. People thought they were twins, they were that close. And do you know, they even died together? Few minutes apart, another boy who knew them wrote from France to tell me. Wasn’t that kind?"

“Very kind.”

She withdraws a handkerchief and dabs at her face with it. Judith, sitting on her other side, reaches into her mother’s lap to squeeze her hand. James’ eyes sting again.

“There now,” Mrs Jakes sniffs, chuckling, “I’ve started already and the bride isn’t even here yet! It’s being back home that does it to you. I expect you know all about that, Master Fitzjames.”

She smiles at James once more, her eyes wet and the lines in her face making him rather wish he could squeeze her hand too. He remembers sitting beside her on a three legged stool in the kitchen when he was six or seven while she made a pudding. Her arms seemed so big and strong to him then; sleeves rolled up and freckled skin bright pink from the heat of the room. She cradled the mixing bowl against her body as she stirred, and if any currants fell out of the mixture she’d say, “oh dear, somebody had better have that!” and James would snatch it up from the tabletop and pop it in his mouth.

A hush descends over the congregation, and James looks up to see that Reverend Irving, dressed in his green vestments, has taken his place behind the lectern. He looks as solemn and anxious as ever, James can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shuffles his notes and opens his bible. Another man is standing at the altar, young and fair haired with a ruddy complexion - Hartnell, James guesses, the groom.

Next, the little pipe organ strikes up, and a heavy, faintly familiar processional dirge begins. The parishioners all stand, and turn to see the bride enter at last. 

James barely has to crane his neck to see over the heads of the congregation, and feels a rush of pleasure at the sight of Solomon entering the church in his Burlington Arcade suit, escorting his younger sister up the aisle. 

Rhoda is a sweet looking girl, with the same friendly frankness that all of Solomon’s family share, beaming a dimpled smile at every one of her neighbors as she makes her way to the front, carrying the pink and white bouquet Peglar delivered earlier that morning. Her dress is traditional, cream coloured, and has been given a few modern alterations for fashion’s sake; shortened at the sleeves and let out at the waist.

Next to James, Mrs Jakes sniffs again, dabbing with her handkerchief once more. 

At the altar, Rhoda reaches up to kiss Solomon’s cheek before he lets her go and turns to find his seat. He sees his mother first, and then James beside her. The flicker of surprise flashes for the barest instant, so fast that James cannot read it before it is gone, and Solomon squeezes in next to Judith as Irving clears his throat and intones, “please be seated.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "The Hock-Cart or Harvest Home" by Robert Herrick
> 
> Coming soon: WEDDING CAKE - AWKWARD SOCIALISING - AN OUTBURST


	9. A wedding (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding continues and we learn that some things can't be avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be grateful for and inspired by kt_fairy, without whom I would never publish anything anymore.

_ Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, _

_ Then to the maids with wheaten hats ; _

_ To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, _

_ Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blithe. _

The service is on Matthew 7:7-8 -  _ Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened _ …. Et cetera, et cetera. An inoffensive passage, James supposes, but rather an odd one for a wedding. He wonders idly what Irving’s sermons are usually like, and decides he doesn’t care enough to find out.

The gist of it, according to the reverend, is that these verbs ought to be considered continuous. All men must  _ ask _ , and go on asking,  _ seek _ , and go on seeking. This implies humility - if one considers the act of prayer as nothing more than an inferior requesting aid from an inferior. Irving does not seem to connect these thoughts with marriage, but James cannot help wondering if he meant to at some point and lost his notes. In the end it all seems to come down to the general holiness of  _ asking _ and  _ acting _ , and the effort one must put into both. 

James cheers up somewhat when the wedding itself begins. The vows are very prettily done, the bride is happy and the groom is honest in his affection for her. Mrs Jakes, standing at James' left shoulder, sighs and chuckles and weeps in turn as the ceremony goes on, and all around them the congregation shuffles and murmurs, reminding James of the singular delight of being part of a crowd. It’s hardly a nightclub, or a theatre performance, but there is an atmosphere of warm fellowship, and the hushed anticipation of a good time yet to come. Perhaps they’ll make a church-goer of him after all.

Solomon, he notes uncharitably, is worse than a church-goer - he's a true believer. James often forgets it, for they hardly discuss philosophy together. But Solomon murmurs along with the rest of them, listens patiently to Irving’s aimless rambling and closes his eyes obediently to pray, clasping his hands in his lap. 

James has never seen him pray before, save for once when they were children. Playing on the grounds one day they found a dead bird - a fledgling, fallen from its nest, and Solomon had come over sentimental, wanting to see it buried.

“We ought to leave it to nature,” James protested, determined to be scientific in every avenue of his life, “let the insects feed on it.”

“We could pray over it, at least," Solomon said, “for its soul to get to heaven.”

“Animals don't have souls, it's in the bible.”

“Can't be.”

“It is.”

“Well,” Solomon frowned, only mildly troubled, “the Bible's wrong, then. All creatures have souls.”

James had no way to argue this, and resolved to bring it up with the chaplain at school at the soonest opportunity. He can’t remember now if he ever did, but he does remember Solomon’s little prayer; head bowed, eyes tight shut, whispering under his breath.

“What did you say?” James asked afterwards, feeling uncomfortably left out.

“That’s between me and my Lord,” Solomon poked his tongue out, then, “I’m hot, let’s go swimming.”

On reflection, perhaps that was the first moment James realised Solomon had an inner life - or that there were parts of him closed off from James; kept private. He didn’t like it then, and it somehow still agitates him now. 

“Amen,” speaks the congregation, returning James to the present. He blinks, looking up, and finds that Solomon is watching him back. 

There is singing, the little pipe organ strikes up again, and after another prayer of thanks for the good harvest, Irving dismisses them. There’s something of a rush to leave the church then, and to surround and congratulate the newlyweds outside in the fresh autumn air. James hangs back a little while, pretending to look at the memorials laid in the floor of the ambulatory while the rest of the guests filter out and Mrs Jakes is borne away by her daughters. 

In the end he follows the last of the stragglers out, and stands beneath the church porch looking for his cigarettes as the rest of them emerge from the quiet shadows and cross over into a golden pool of sunlight that seems to have concentrated itself in Culswen’s village green. He watches the villagers gathering together on the grass, bringing wicker chairs, cushions and blankets out from their homes to prepare for the party. Little children chase each other about the lawn; some of the boys have small union flags and streamers leftover from another celebration - Armistice perhaps. A broad trestle table is being unfolded by two young men and Lydia arrives with a tablecloth to lay across it. There is laughter and whistling whenever the newlyweds kiss, and a great cheer goes up at the sight of a beer barrel being rolled out of the pub. James raises his eyes to the surrounding hills, and to Cadwallen Hoo, which looks very small and trivial from here. 

Soon enough Solomon catches sight of him and - after glancing about himself rather conspicuously - crosses back to the churchyard. 

“You came, then,” he says as he approaches, hands in his pockets, eyes assessing from beneath the peak of his cap. They are alone, or whatever passes for it in Culswen, but they are still very much on display and they both know it. 

“Of course,” James says. “It was a beautiful service.”

“Ta for the flowers, Rhoda was made up.”

“Yes, your mother said,” James smiles. “I’m glad she liked them - though I had Peglar do all the work for me, I’m afraid.” 

“It’s the thought that counts, I expect.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Another cheer from the green catches their attention - the beer barrel has been mounted and tapped, and men are hurrying to fill their glasses. The spirit of it makes James smile despite the many years he has spent avoiding and hating Culswen. He hasn’t seen this kind of merriment in the village since before the war. 

“There’ll be cake in a bit,” Solomon says, “hope you’ll stay, or mother won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“Yes, of course - it’s wonderful to see her again. And to meet the rest of your family.” James feels he is testing the water somewhat with this remark, but it lands smoothly enough.

“A lot of folks for you to meet,” Solomon grunts.

“I don’t mind that, you know me.”

Solomon gives him another long appraising stare. “Glad you came,” he says, finally. “I know it’s not London.”

James is on the verge of feeling foolish once more. “I’m glad to be here. It’s good to see… well, all of this, really.” He gestures vaguely at the celebrations, “to see the village as you must know it.”

“It’s a happy day,” Solomon shifts on his feet, shoes grinding in the flinty gravel of the path. “Good time for a visit, I expect.” 

“What I mean to say,” James corrects himself carefully, “is that I feel I know you better, seeing you here, which makes it… well. I am only sorry I haven’t come down sooner.” 

Solomon doesn’t say anything in response to this, but it’s clear from his smile and the lightness which softens his eyes that he understands perfectly. With startling clarity, James recognises that he is always understood, when it comes to Solomon. If there is any soul on earth he does not need to explain himself to, it is him. 

Perhaps the revelation is felt by both of them, because they’re almost awkward with each other for a moment until Tozer alights on something to change the subject. 

“Here, have a look,” he leads James a little way around the church, through the graves where the grass has grown up lush and thick, to the eastern facade of the building which gets the most light. The wedding celebrations feel distant from them now, and Solomon more at ease. He nods at one of the gravestones. “First job I ever did for Mr Weekes.”

James looks at it. It’s fairly ordinary, in line with the general style of the English protestant churchyard, with a semi-circular top and copperplate inscription.  _ Mary Bolsh _ \- it reads -  _ Beloved wife and mother.  _ Based on the dates James quickly calculates that she was seventy-three when she died. He pictures sixteen year old Solomon carving every letter, the stern faced look he gets when he’s concentrating. 

“Marvellous,” James says, turning to smile at him.

“Had to carve blocks of soap for a month before he’d give me a chisel for a go on some real granite,” Solomon grins fondly. “Took me two days longer than it was supposed to and nearly had my pay docked.”

“A perfectionist,” James declares.

“Could do it in an afternoon now. My bread and butter, headstones.”

“Isn’t that awfully morbid?”

“Sad, you mean? Nah. When I think about all the lads who never got one,” Solomon shrugs, “nah. It’s death, but it’s life too, isn’t it?”

“Goodness,” James says, and nothing else.

“Sorry,” Solomon says, “I’m not much of a host, am I?”

“That’s all right, I happen to be an excellent guest.”

Solomon snorts, smiling and shaking his head, “of course.”

“I had rather forgotten about that beautiful village green,” James says, feeling more himself by the moment, “almost puts me in the mood to resurrect the old village cricket match, eh?”

“You’d better hire some staff then. Or did you fancy pitting yourself against the entire working men’s club alone?”

“I’ll have you know Bridgens is a magnificent right-arm pacer.”

Solomon laughs at that, his eyes shining, hands still in his pockets his shoulders bob back then forwards. James laughs too, though it wasn’t particularly witty. 

At this moment, just as James is beginning to feel at ease, a young woman comes hurrying around the side of the church towards them. It’s Lydia, who for some reason James always pictured as older than Solomon, but she’s barely a girl. She looks very much like Mrs Jakes, especially about the eyes and mouth. As she catches sight of them, she gives Solomon a strange look James can’t discern the meaning of - almost reproachful. She seems barely able to look at James, and bobs an awkward curtsey at the last moment.

“Heard you laughing,” she says to Solomon, “share the joke, brother, I need a laugh.”

“Nothing,” Solomon shrugs. “Just something Fitzjames said.”

“Showing off poor old Mrs Bolsh again?” she nods at the headstone.

He nods, looking away. His manner has changed, he has closed up again. James feels an irrepressible surge of guilt. He has never wanted to make things difficult for Solomon. 

“Well,” Lydia sighs, “you’d better come. Ma won’t have the cake cut unless you’re there, we’re all waiting.”

“Apologies," James steps forward, smiling broadly, "all rather my fault.”

She looks at him again, seeming to be measuring something, and then nods, "I expect you'll want to stay a while, Lord Gambier. You’ll not want to miss mother’s fruit cake, at any rate.”

“I should think not! Please,” he gestures for her to lead, and the three of them make their way back through the churchyard, towards the village green. James sees each headstone with fresh eyes, wondering which of them Solomon had a hand in, and which were by his predecessors. 

On the green, revelry is underway. One of the older men has fetched a violin from somewhere, and is preparing to strike up a tune. Women stand in groups talking amongst themselves, bending over to chastise their children, or rocking babies on their hips. Their husbands and brothers have gathered about the beer barrel with their foaming tankards, their shoulders broad and their laughter gruff. The younger villagers have similarly divided themselves by sex, and the boys eye up the girls, who preen and flirt in turn. Everyone is smiling, there is no mistaking the atmosphere of celebration. 

The bulk of the Tozer-Jakes family stands by the table set up for the cake. Rhoda is talking to her sisters, her mouth moving quickly and her dimpled cheeks bursting with happiness while her groom looks on over the rim of his mug of beer, clearly pleased to have the ceremony over with. 

“Lord Gambier!” they are waylaid by the reverend and his wife before they are even halfway. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to see you at the service,” Irving says, shaking his hand. “May I introduce my wife, Mrs Irving,” he presents the young woman beside him. 

“Lord Gambier,” she steps forward with a wide smile. 

She’s a slight woman, which is the fashion nowadays, though she doesn’t dress for it, instead favouring an old fashioned get up; tweed skirt grazing her ankles, sensible brown shoes and a blouse buttoned up to the neck. “We’re all so happy you’ve returned. How nice to look up at that big old house and think it isn’t empty any more.”

“Thank you,” James replies smoothly, “it is wonderful to be back in Shropshire.”

He can practically feel Solomon’s eyes burning into the side of his head, and chooses to ignore it. 

“John,” Mrs Irving addresses her husband, “won’t you fetch Lord Gambier a drink?”

The reverend looks vaguely startled by this suggestion, looking behind himself across the green to the beer table, where the farm labourers and tradesmen of the village are settling in for an afternoon’s carousing, by the sounds of things. “Yes, dear,” Irving says, before turning stiffly and marching straight-backed towards the table. 

As the vicar leaves Solomon and Lydia share a look which apparently communicates multitudes, because Lydia nods and excuses herself, “I’ll tell mother you won’t be long,” she says pointedly, eyeing Mrs Irving as she does. 

“Wasn’t it a lovely wedding,” Mrs Irving gushes at James. She has large teeth which bite down on her bottom lip and give her a slight lisp. “I heard about the flowers from Mrs Evans, who heard from Harry Peglar’s aunt - who of course looked after him as a boy, until he moved into the gardener's cottage. Very kind of you, Lord Gambier.”

“A pleasure,” James says, losing his footing a little, “I’m told we’ve had very good luck with late blooming perennials in the gardens this year.”

Solomon looks very much as though he is about to laugh again, and James can’t help smiling too. The situation they find themselves in feels more ridiculous by the moment as they wait for the vicar to return with the beer. 

Mrs Irving doesn’t quite catch on to their amusement, but continues on happily, “yes, I said to my John, poppies and larkspur - so unusual for a bride! Certainly nothing a lady would have picked. But then, Rhoda is a pretty girl, she can wear anything - or should I say Mrs Hartnell!”

“Quite,” James smiles pleasantly.

“And you're looking very handsome, Solomon,” Mrs Irving reaches over and squeezes the top of his arm with brazen familiarity. “If an old married woman might give such a compliment.”

Solomon doesn’t respond further than a grunt, and Mrs Irving keeps her hand on him, grinning. She is not ‘old’ at all, James thinks acidly, she looks the same age as they are.

“Is this a new suit?” she asks. 

“Yeah it is,” Solomon bobs his head, distracted by the noise at the cake table, where Lydia and Jude are both waving him over.

“I never thought I'd see the day. I did hear you'd been to London.”

“I’d better go, Sal, the cake,” he says to her, pulling his arm away.

“You go, I’ll keep Lord Gambier company,” she turns her attention on James now.

Solomon offers only a brief parting glance before abandoning James to the mercy of Sarah Irving, returning to his family.

James watches him arrive at the table, and Mrs Jakes takes him by the arm just as she did with James earlier, clearly making a fuss over him. Solomon’s smile is clear even at a distance, and he says something to Rhoda, then something else to Harnell, who laughs. A pug-faced man with a bright red beard hands him a tankard of beer and he drinks deeply.

“I was only asking my John this morning when we could expect to see you at a service,” Mrs Irving is saying to him, “and he said that he wasn’t sure, but that he did hope it would be today. I daresay he had a twinkle in his eye - you must have told him you were coming.”

“Yes, the reverend came to discuss the church arches.”

“Wonderful news. I said to John - to Reverend Irving - I said that once I had met you I would write a note, and have it delivered up to the house to invite you for supper. And now I have, and so I shall!”

“Awfully kind, I’m sure,” James says, just as Irving returns with three cups of beer. He hands one to James, then passes another to his wife. Both men drink - James being unused to beer finding it warm and thicker than he expected.

There is a cheer from the Tozer-Jakes corner, where the cake has finally been cut. More villagers begin to gather for their slice, and the men peel off from the group to refill their cups. James watches Tozer clap Hartnell on the back, and with his younger brothers and the red-bearded man make their way to the barrel together.

“I was just telling Lord Gambier about my plans to invite him for supper,” Mrs Irving says, “after church one Sunday - I shall cook a feast!”

“Yes, dreadfully kind,” James repeats, “but I’m afraid I won’t be in any position to reciprocate the invitation for at least a month, perhaps longer - the house needs rather a lot of work, you see, and--”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that!” Mrs Irving shakes her head, “I’m sure you’ll find us a good deal more relaxed than your London society.”

James bites his tongue to prevent a wry smile crossing his face at that. “Nevertheless,” he says carefully, “there is a great deal occupying me at present and I’m afraid I would make a poor guest ---”

“Well, that will give me time to prepare properly!” Laughs the indomitable vicar’s wife, “Perhaps I shall invite the Evanses and the Jenkins - oh! I do believe the archdeacon will be visiting in October, which will give us both plenty of time - I call that providence, don’t you?”

“I… quite,” James swallows another mouthful of mealy beer, trying not to look too much as if he’d like to get away.

“You must let me know your favourite meal, and I shall have it ready for you - the archdeacon prefers beef tongue, but we served that for him last time, and the reverend can’t bear it anyway - oh-!” her eyes flash wide, and she covers her mouth as though she has said something blasphemous - “ _ you _ don’t like beef tongue, do you, Lord Gambier? Your father was very partial to offal.”

“I am sure anything you serve will be perfectly marvellous,” James replies, reconciled to his fate. They must expect him to start attending church every week now, he realises, and sit in the family pew. It will be noticed if he doesn’t. They’ll have him judging the prize pig at the village fête next, as if he has ever understood anything about livestock. 

“I must say, we have all been looking forward to your return, haven't we, John?” Mrs Irving prattles on, “after Lord Gambier - though, of course  _ you  _ are our only Lord Gambier now!” she places a hand on his arm, which he finds mildly alarming, “- after your dear father’s passing, we have all felt such a loss. It makes me so happy to look up at Cadwallen Hoo and know it is not empty any more.”

Feeling grim again, he attempts to bolster himself against Sarah Irving’s exacting enthusiasm. “What a thoughtful thing to say.” 

“Lord Gambier, I should very much like to discuss something with you,” Reverend Irving takes his moment.

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, indeed,” Irving nods earnestly. James is struck again by his handsomeness, and the intensity with which he addresses him, eyes grave and brows knit. They’re an oddly matched couple, in James’ opinion, but he has often seen nervous men joined with forceful women - what would Guppy make of that, he finds himself wondering. 

“You may recall I mentioned a particular parishioner some time ago, a Mr Hickey,” Irving says furtively.

“Ah, yes, once of the men working on my renovations,” James nods. 

“You have met him?”

“I’m afraid not,” James smiles tightly. Perhaps he has, he doesn’t recognise the name, but he is coming to learn the men’s faces one by one. “I take it he has not submitted to baptism yet.”

“He has not,” Irving says, his voice very grave.

“No luck bringing him closer to understanding, as we discussed?”

“No, in fact I’m afraid the situation may be much worse than I feared.”

“Goodness,” James raises his eyebrows.

“I believe it is not only Mr Hickey’s soul in need of saving, but others he has… corrupted. You know that he is currently boarding at The Ship?”

“Reverend Irving, I--”

“Of course I would not speak of such things in front of my dear wife,” Irving glances at Sarah, who is watching them both shrewdly while sipping her beer. “But suffice to say that - well, I believe something must be done at once.”

James is at a loss - he cannot discern what Irving is trying to tell him, and he’s certain by now that whatever it is, it isn’t interesting. The rumbling sound of roistering from the beer table grows louder, men’s shouts and barking laughter springing off the stone fronted cottages surrounding the green. The youngest boys have begun a game of British Bulldog behind the drinks table, and are already charging at each other with wild abandon, dragging their friends down into the grass. Another barrel has been produced from the pub, and the long-legged publican is pushing it towards the rest of the men. Everything looks very jolly, James thinks, whatever Irving says.

Mrs Irving appears similarly unmoved by her husband’s concern, and smiles brightly again.

“It’s too fine a day for this talk. Look, Hannah is handing out cake, I don’t think you’ve tried Mrs Jakes’ fruitcake before, my dear?”

“I have not,” the vicar replies, still eyeing James with ministerial fervor. 

“Then you must, at once,” James says jovially, bobbing forward as though it’s a fine joke. “You won’t find better anywhere, I’ve half a mind to demand the recipe for my man, Bridgens.”

The polite titter this generates from the couple makes James feel more a fraud than ever.

“Will you join us, Lord Gambier?” Mrs Irving asks, taking her husband’s arm and steering him away.

“Later, perhaps,” James waves graciously, “I ought to make the rounds, as it were - I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” she grins again, teeth showing, clearly thrilled to be brought into James’ confidence. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Gambier!”

“Charmed I’m sure,” James nods, practically bowing to encourage her away. 

Left alone, James walks a few paces to stretch his legs. Nobody else approaches him, the rest of the village being very much engaged in their own enjoyment. The carnival atmosphere is unlike anything he has experienced in Culswen before. His father and stepmother hosted various fêtes for the village in their time, but of course these were most often held at the house (or rather, on the lawn) and everyone would be on their best behaviour. He remembers thinking how miserable his father’s tenants were; the grim faced men and sour women who snapped at their children for so much as laughing too loudly. He realises now, with a sorry, sickly twinge, that this assessment was an unfair one. Seeing them here - on home ground, as it were - so vibrant and full of mischief and energy, is like seeing a different village altogether.

Solomon is at the centre of activity, just as it was when he was in charge of work at the house. Once again, James finds himself watching from a distance. Tozer has taken up refereeing the game the boys are playing, his voice raised above the excited whoops and shouts, directing the players and selecting the youths who are to be ‘bulldogs’. 

James would like to go over and be part of the fun too - it looks like an awfully good time, stirring memories of school and boyhood in him - but he hesitates when he realises he has no idea what the etiquette is. He isn’t venerable enough to command anything but confusion and deference from his tenants, and he can’t remember his father ever involving himself in games, so there is no example to follow there. He looks down at his beer again, swilling it idly in the cup and watching the foam drift across the dark surface. The little he has drunk already sits heavily in his stomach, he has no taste for it. 

To keep from sighing, James reaches into his pocket for his cigarette case. Just as he does, Solomon’s youngest sister appears in his periphery, striding across the grass towards him. He leaves the silver case in his pocket and widens his mouth into a smile again.

Jude is carrying a little floral plate with a thin slice of dark fruit cake upon it. Her hair is in its usual two braids, wisps already coming undone around her face, sticking to her neck and temples. 

“Here,” she holds the plate out to him so eagerly that the tiny silver fork slides against the china, almost slipping over the lip of the saucer, “Ma wants you to have some before it’s all gone.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking it from her carefully. With his mug of beer still almost full, it’s rather a difficult balancing act.

“I’ll look after it,” Jude takes the tankard from him, “and I won’t drink any - even though Sol lets me have some sometimes.”

“Does he?” James smiles, breaking off a portion of fruit cake with the side of his fork. 

“Yeah,” she nods with an air of experience. “Half a pint on Sundays, actually.”

“I say,” James chews on the cake, which is delicious; rich with brandy and dense with dried fruit and brown sugar. Jude’s company is rather more relaxing than Sarah Irving’s, she is content to stand by watching the rest of the village with him.

The next round of British Bulldog is well underway, and at Solomon’s signal the players all charge towards the chosen bulldogs, heads down and arms out. When the lines collide chaos erupts, boys yell and men cheer from the sidelines as the players attempt to evade capture. 

“Tommy Armitage, he has a football,” Jude says eventually, “I expect there’ll be a game later on.”

“Do you play?”

“They don’t let me, Lydia says I’ll break my ankle. I don’t think I’d mind much; the doctor would come and put a plaster on my leg, can you imagine that?”

“I can,” James nods, “I broke my ankle when I was your age.”

“Playing football?”

“Rugby, while I was away at school.”

“Did you have a plaster?”

“I did indeed. And it was jolly good fun for a day or two - all the boys signed their names and wrote amusing poetry on the cast. But I’m afraid it became rather tiresome - I wasn’t allowed to leave my bed for three weeks.”

“Oh,” she wrinkles up her nose, “well I don’t fancy that much. I’m sharing with Daisy now Rhoda’s out, and she already kicks.”

A mutiny is in effect in the Bulldog game, the boys gather in a huddle and as Solomon approaches to break them up they pounce at once, dragging him to the ground. This is met by even louder cheers and applause from half the village when one of the boys makes off with Solomon’s hat.

“Did you like the cake?” Jude asks the moment James sets his fork down.

“Very much, thank you.”

“Come and see Ma, then, she was asking for you.” 

She takes the plate from him and hands him back his beer, which he swigs from to wash down the last of the brandy soaked currants sticking in his throat. Jude leads the way, striding again, holding the plate at her side now it is unladen, and twirling the little fork between her fingers like a miniature baton. “Have you got my photograph?” She asks as they walk.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My photograph, remember? You let me use your camera, by the lake. You said I could have it.”

“Ah, yes,” James remembers guiltily that he kept it aside, surprised by how well it had come out. “I must have a look for it.”

The Tozer-Jakes women have laid claim to the refreshments table, and bustle about it with lively chatter, sharing out sandwiches and soothing overexcited infants. A few chairs have been set out nearby, and one of the largest of these, a tall backed wicker affair, is occupied by Mrs Jakes.

“Master Fitzjames,” she smiles up at him, “a beautiful day.”

“Exceedingly,” he bends to kiss her cheek, a liberty perhaps prompted by the beer, which he sets down half-full on the table and plans to forget about.

Mrs Jakes misses nothing and nods at the tankard, “I’ve a bottle of sherry here, if you’d like a drop, Master Fitzjames?” She reaches down by her chair where the bottle stands on the grass at her feet. “Nice to have something a bit sweet. Judith, fetch a glass, will you? And tidy your hair up, for goodness sake, girl, you look like you've come through a hedge backwards.”

Jude’s shoulders stiffen, but she nods, trotting off towards the cottages without a word.

“Lydia, have we got a chair for Master Fitzjames?” Mrs Jakes turns to her other daughter, who is sitting beside her with a baby on one knee and a bag of knitting on the other. There’s another child, a little girl just old enough to wear a frock, playing in the grass at the women’s feet. Lydia begins to get up, but James shakes his head, stepping forward.

“Not on my account,” he says quickly, “I prefer to stand.”

“What a gentleman,” Mrs Jakes says approvingly, “didn’t I say?”

Lydia murmurs something James can’t hear, and sets her jaw in a way that reminds him of so much of Solomon in a bad temper he wonders what on earth he has done to offend her. 

Mrs Jakes pays it no mind, but leans back in her chair, resplendent as a queen, smiling over all of the proceedings. “Saw you talking to the vicar,” she says to James, glancing up at him from the shade of her straw hat, “queer sort, eh? Your father must have scared the daylights out of him.”

James chuckles, amused, and agrees. 

“Surprised Sally Moffet went after him though,” she continues, looking for the odd couple amongst the crowd, “had her down for my Solomon.”

Lydia tuts loudly.

“Well, she’s a lively girl,” Mrs Jakes insists, “knows her mind - might have been nice company for him. Quiet men like a chatterbox.”

“Do they?” Hannah, one of the older sisters appears behind them, “my Darcy doesn’t.” She laughs, setting her own little girl down in the grass next to Lydia’s. There are so many children, they seem to be passed about like parcels.

"Nor my David, if you hear him talk," Lydia agrees, needles clicking.

“They like to bluster, but as a rule,  _ they do _ ,” Mrs Jakes says firmly. “I’m right, aren’t I, Master Fitzjames? Now, you were a boy who could talk. I bet you like a nice quiet lady for yourself -  _ demure _ .”

Nobody has ever made any assumptions about the sort of woman James might like, and he has a devil of a time trying to devise a response. Fortunately they are interrupted by a neighbour, and then another child, older this time and apparently a cousin to somebody.

James realises once again that he was incorrect - it is not Solomon who is the centre of activity this afternoon, but his mother. He watches, fascinated as an endless parade of sons and daughters and grandchildren and nieces and nephews move about her, stopping by to pay a kind of homage, to swap gossip, or exchange fond greetings. 

“Is this the first time you have been back to Culswen?” James asks when there is a lull.

“Oh, yes, been almost six years now. Same for you, I expect,” she replies cheerfully, bending forward to allow one of her granddaughters to place a daisy chain garland around the brim of her hat. “It’s a funny place to miss, isn’t it? But I think I do, sometimes.”

“It must be difficult to be away from your family.”

“Well, when you have as many kids as I have…” Mrs Jakes raises her eyebrows. “Lydia, where is Isaac?”

“With the other boys, I expect,” Lydia replies without looking up from her knitting.

“Keep an eye out, he’ll get himself into mischief.”

“Aaron’s with him,” says Lydia, almost sharply.

“My youngest,” Mrs Jakes explains to James, “not a clever boy. Nearly eleven and barely a thought in his head, I don’t know what they’ll do with him.”

“He’s twelve, Ma,” Lydia says, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, you’d know better than me,” Mrs Jakes waves a hand, as though it hardly matters. 

Presently Jude returns with a small sherry glass and her hair freshly braided. She very carefully pours James a glass and hands it to him, then stands beside Lydia. “They’re playing football,” she says.

“Take Davy, will you?” Lydia hoists the baby off her knee and hands her to Jude, clearly uninterested in any arguments on the matter. She brushes off her skirt and straightens in her chair, rubbing her back.

“Have a sherry, darling,” Mrs Jakes advises her, pouring herself another.

“Someone in this family ought to keep a clear head,” Lydia laughs, and returns to her knitting. As she does, the thin reedy whine of a fiddle drifts across the green, and there is a marked change in the atmosphere as the villagers begin to stand up and move towards it.

“There you are,” Lydia nudges Jude, “there’ll be no more football, everyone will be dancing.”

“Can I?”

“Oh, go on then,” Lydia accepts baby Davy back from her and sets him down in the grass with the other two. Judith runs off as fast as her legs will carry her, hair already slipping loose from its plaits. 

Now that the football and games have disbanded the villagers mingle amongst themselves; men seek out their wives and the youths who were throwing glances at one another earlier now take their first cautious steps towards courtship. Jude quickly finds herself in a knot of girls her age, laughing and practising dance steps with each other, and Hannah’s husband saunters over to offer his hand as a polka strikes up from the fiddle.

The shift in atmosphere brings Solomon back, finally, crossing the green towards them with his boots in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He is lit up with joy, red faced and damp with sweat about his neck and where his braces rub his shoulders. James withdraws a cigarette, to occupy his hands.

"There's my sunshine," Mrs Jakes beams up at her son as he arrives, and bends to kiss her cheek, "my bright boy!" She reaches up to run her fingers through his hair.

"Give over," Solomon ducks away from her petting. He takes up James’ half-full tankard - perhaps mistaking it for his own - drains it, then sits on the grass with the children. As he does he tosses down his jacket over the two little girls’ heads, causing a fit of hysterical giggles muffled by the tweed.

"He was that fair as a baby," Mrs Jakes says to James, ignoring Solomon’s protests and bending forward to tidy his hair, " _ platinum _ , they call it, better than gold. All of my babies were like that, and then it darkened as they got older. Broke my heart every time, it did, Solomon and Lydia are the only two that stayed fair.”

“Seen Bryant about?” Lydia asks her brother, snatching up his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of her chair. 

“Aye,” he nods up at her, grinning, “drunk, he is.”

Lydia sighs.

“Let the lads have a nice time,” Mrs Jakes says, her cheeks quite pink now as she sips at her third glass of sherry, “they work hard.”

The dancing is well underway now, and quite a show. There is very little form or poise, but everybody is intent on enjoying themselves and the energy on the green swells and trills with such liveliness James cannot help wishing he were a part of it. 

He has always found it rather a trite conceit that the working poor are content in their simple lives, but as he watches his tenants spin each other about in the early autumn sunshine he feels a sorry kind of longing for something he has always wondered if he was missing. He carefully watches Solomon, reclining on the grass and playing with his nieces, and sees at once how comfortably he belongs here. 

"I do like a wedding," says Mrs Jakes, her fingers tapping against the arm of her chair as she watches the dancers whirl past. “Look, look! See our Rhoda?”

The newlyweds flit past, both laughing, the bride’s feet skipping out of time.

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Mrs Jakes sighs.

"Very," James agrees, sincerely. 

"Always has been,” she turns to smile at him, then turns to Lydia, “though I must say, she's looking a bit thick about the waist. Reckon we'll have some happy news soon, eh?"

Solomon snorts, shaking his head, " _ Ma. _ "

"Well," she nods, taking another sip of sherry, "that's just the way of things, isn’t it. I don't think we've had a virgin bride in this family for a hundred years.”

James almost chokes on his cigarette while Lydia shakes with laughter.

"Ma!" Solomon says again.

"I say it’s a good sign," she smiles, "means they started things happy. You oughtn’t keep young lovers apart, not natural. Not right. Speak of the devil.”

The red-bearded, pug faced man Solomon was speaking to earlier, who James believes is one of his brothers’ in law, approaches, staggering on such ungainly legs that James presumes he must be Lydia’s drunk husband, Mr Bryant. 

“Where’s my boy?” he booms, picking up Davy from the floor and lifting the child in the air so that he shrieks. 

“Don’t agitate him,” Lydia chides.

“He’s all right,” Bryant swings him in his arms in time with the fiddle. Bryant looks down at Solomon, “few of us are trying to get Gibson to crack out that cider barrel. Coming?”

“Nah,” Solomon shakes his head. “I’ll put in for it though.”

“Too bloody right.”

“Don’t swear,” Lydia says, glancing meaningfully at James. Bryant looks at him too, then down, touching the brim of his hat. Perhaps James is the only one who feels the awkwardness of this greeting, and anyway, Bryant quickly leaves, handing the infant back to Lydia.

The baby fusses, crying and waving his fists, forcing Lydia to set aside her knitting again to soothe him. 

“Ought to be sweeter to him, love,” Mrs Jakes says, “he’s been a good man to you.”

“I know that,” Lydia snaps. “Leave it, Ma.”

“Oh yes, don’t mind me,” Mrs Jakes huffs, drinking again, “I’m only your mother.”

“Here,” Solomon climbs to his feet and takes Davy from his sister with somewhat more care than his brother-in-law had. He holds the child like it’s nothing at all, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet until the crying stops. James, having never held a baby in his life, can’t help staring. 

Fortunately for everybody, Solomon’s actions have had the dual benefit of alleviating Lydia of both her baby and Mrs Jakes’ scrutiny.

“Look at you,” Mrs Jakes coos at Solomon, “time for some little ones of your own, soon. You can afford a family now, can’t you? All that money we keep hearing about.”

Solomon says nothing, still bouncing Davy.

“You know,” she leans over the arm of her wicker chair to speak to James under the illusion of confidence, “my Solomon, he’s off to make his fortune. He’s been selling his statues, down in that London.” 

“Of course Lord Gambier knows that, mother, it was him that went with Sol,” Lydia puts in, still a little prickly.

"Ah, you're a good boy," she reaches up to pat James’ arm, and James feels a certain kind of warmth at being included - though it might simply be the sherry. “When will you be going next?” She addresses Solomon now.

"Eh? No, no need to go again, I told you," Solomon says abruptly, settling Davy onto his hip, “not for a long time. At least a year.”

"Well it's nice to have a little holiday," Mrs Jakes smiles. "I expect you're back and forth often, eh, Master Fitzjames? Fashionable young man like you.”

“Oh, I’ve plenty keeping me tied up here,” James replies, consciously evading Solomon’s gaze. “I do rather hope to be back in the city sooner than next autumn, though.”

Solomon doesn’t even look at James to show he heard him, but squats down to sit his nephew on the grass with the two little girls. He stays down there, apparently more absorbed in the children than the adult conversation. He’s murmuring a nursery rhyme, the babies’ fat hands clap together and beat against their chubby thighs.

It’s all perfectly charming, but James knows very well when he is being ignored. 

“He's gone quiet," Mrs Jakes says fondly, "didn’t I say? That's how you know he's one of mine. My girls are all loud and my boys all quiet. You expect things the other way around."

As if to prove this point, Jude reappears, her hair a lost cause yet again, her cheeks red and her eyes wild with joy. She collapses to her knees beside Solomon with all the ungainly grace of youth, ignoring her mother’s head shaking.

"Come and have a dance, Sol,” Jude pants, touching his arm.

"Don't dance," he says, suddenly bashful, and stands up again.

"Yes you do!"

“Not today I don’t, leave me be.”

"You should, it's half the fun of a wedding," Mrs Jakes says, finishing her third glass. “And like I said, time to start thinking about a family. Solomon. He’s no plans to marry you know.” She turns to James again, “I know how you young men are, you think you’ve all the time in the world, but I’ve buried two husbands and two sons, and I call it a waste, that’s what.”

“Ma,” Solomon frowns, “Fitzjames doesn’t want to know.”

“He might, he might talk some sense into you,” she pats James’ arm again, “give him a good thump and tell him what’s what, eh Lord Gambier? That’s what my Solomon needs.”

“I don’t know about that,” James smiles politely.

“What about you?” Lydia speaks suddenly, looking up at James. “Have you a young lady down in London, Lord Gambier?”

“No, no, confirmed bachelor,” he says this easily. He has found that very few people will question something if you say it casually enough. Perhaps it was Guppy who taught him that. Mind you, Guppy likely never met anyone like Mrs Jakes. 

“A terrible waste,” Mrs Jakes tuts again, “who’s to look after that lovely big house for you, eh?”

“I may not be in it very long. I’ve some plans to travel,” James replies. He isn’t quite sure why he says it, except that Solomon has finally deigned to pay attention to him. “...so I would make a sorry sort of husband, I’m afraid.”

“Oh I shouldn’t think so,” Mrs Jakes returns, not to be daunted, “you’ve only to look for an adventurous girl, eh? Plenty of those about. Where will you go, then? Abroad, I expect.”

“Nothing is firm yet,” James says carefully. He glances across at Solomon, whose face is unreadable, and decides to press harder. “Though I’ve had an invitation to Egypt, and I expect that’s as good a place as any to begin.”

“Egypt! I’ll go with you, Lord Gambier!” Jude leaps up, “if you need a maid.”

"Maid, indeed," Mrs Jakes cackles. "Lydia, didn't I tell you, you ought to put her in service."

“Ma, don’t,” Lydia says. “Jude’s a clever girl.”

“All this school and she hasn't learnt to keep her hair tidy.”

Jude touches her plaits anxiously and begins untying them again, combing the long dark hair out with her fingers. Her face is quite red. James stands apart, watching the three siblings consciously avoid their mother’s gaze in the silence that follows, and begins to wonder that perhaps all families do have something in common after all. 

He can’t help scrutinising Solomon. They’ve never discussed plans to travel - they’ve never discussed plans at all, come to that. They’ve come close to it, certainly; and surely James’ presence today counts for something. Mind you, he tells himself, weighing the balance, if James’ presence is meaningful, then so is Solomon’s determination to ignore it.

Aaron and Isaac are the next of Solomon’s siblings to break away from the celebrations. Aaron, a strapping young man of nineteen with soft brown hair and the shadow of a premature attempt at a moustache on his top lip is practically dragging his younger brother by the collar. Isaac looks utterly dejected, and is sopping wet from head to toe. As the pair draw close, a sweet, sickly scent fills the air.

“What happened here then?” Solomon asks.

“Took a tumble into the bloody cider barrel, didn’t he?” Aaron gives the smaller boy a shove, “dolt.” The child sniffs, cider dripping from the tips of his hair.

“Oh, Isaac,” Lydia sighs. “Silly boy.”

“Sorry,” he hangs his head, wretched. His elder sisters gather around, Abigail, Hannah and Martha quickly arriving on the scene. Mrs Jakes doesn’t get up, barely looking at her youngest.

"Oh dear, Isaac," she says, her voice rather flat, "reckon somebody ought to give you a wash." 

"I'll take him," Lydia offers, quickly. 

"No, you visit with Ma, she never sees you," Abigail shakes her head, putting an arm around the boy. "Come along, Isaac," she says kindly.

"Yes mother," Isaac shivers.

"I'm your sister," she takes his hand, "there's your mother," she nods at Mrs Jakes. Isaac looks at both women, then at Lydia, frowning as though he cannot understand the difference. James can’t help but feel dreadfully sorry for him. 

This minor melodrama causes a kind of shift change amongst the rest of the Tozer-Jakes family - Jude gets up and leaves again, her hair half-finished; Hannah picks up her youngest and begins talking to Lydia and Mrs Jakes about something to do with hats, or Rhoda’s dress. 

On the green it seems that Isaac’s mishap has not dampened anybody’s propensity for drink, and the dancing is still well underway. The sun is still bright, there are hours of daylight left and James realises he has no idea how much longer the celebrations will continue. 

Solomon is lighting his pipe, watching the children playing at his feet, and James realises it is quite past time for him to leave. He has enjoyed parts of the day, and seen many things he knows he ought to spend some time thinking about later, but if he lingers for much longer then he can see his perspective turning sour. Besides, he couldn’t bear another glass of sherry.

“Mrs Jakes,” he says, once there is a reasonable lull in conversation, “I can’t tell you what a delight it has been to see you again.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“I am - thank you all for allowing me to share some of the day with you. Such a joyful occasion.”

“Ah, you’re a sweet boy and you always have been. Come and kiss me goodbye,” she commands, and he can only obey, bending to peck her cheek once more. She still smells very faintly of cloves, a fine childhood memory he will happily carry back to Cadwallen Hoo with him.

“I’ll walk with you, a bit,” Solomon says unexpectedly, tamping out his pipe.

“Oh, there’s really no need.”

“We’ve business to discuss. Besides, reckon you didn’t count on getting saddled with a pack of women all afternoon,” his voice is gruff, but his sisters and mother laugh, so it is all in good fun. “Owe you a bit of sensible conversation, don’t I?”

“Solomon Tozer,” Hannah says, reaching over to tug sharply on a lock of his hair and flick his ear, “you’ve become a tyrant.”

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells them, then looks at James with raised eyebrows. James nods back in reply, and smiles again to repress the unexpected burst of joy he feels. 

They take a different route back through the village, exiting the green at the furthest point from the church. The few small roads which make up Culswen are deserted, all of the noise and life receding behind them.

“I said thank you for the ham, didn’t I?” Solomon asks.

“You did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I want to be a good landlord, it’s why I came.”

“Ah, is that why,” Solomon nods, scratching his beard. “Wondered.”

“Yes, I think you’ll be impressed with me,” James says, gazing up at the cottages as they pass them, “I’ve been making a study of the village.”

“Yeah?” Solomon glances at him, “what’ve you learnt, then?”

“That is the Hartnell’s home,” James points at a house with a yellow front door and a cracked chimney pot. “And John Weekes’ widow must live…” he casts about, then finds it, “there.”

“Yep,” is all Solomon says, “that’s right.” 

"And that must be your sister's cottage," James says, as they come to another row of thatched houses. This one has a red front door. "Which belonged to your father, John Tozer.”

“John Solomon Tozer,” he corrects, “yeah, that’s us.”

James senses Tozer’s discomfort, and can’t account for it, deciding that it must be part of the same unease he himself is feeling. "I oughtn’t have left it so long,” he says, by way of apology. “I feel foolish only now learning where you lived.”

“Well, not your fault. Never thought you’d end up Lord Gambier, did you?”

“No.”

“So. Stands to reason you wouldn’t take an interest.”

“I’m taking an interest now. Tell me, which of your siblings live there now, with Lydia?”

“Jude and Isaac - not Rhoda, after today.”

“And she has the two of her own?”

“S’right.”

“Gosh, poor thing.” James says, beginning to understand Lydia’s weariness. 

“She likes it,” Solomon shakes his head. “They’re never short of anything, not while I’m around.”

"Still... it must be awfully cramped, only the two bedrooms, isn’t it?"

"Put a dividing wall up in the attic, boys in one, girls in the other."

"When did they do that?"

"My dad did it, when I was born," Solomon says. "Always did us fine.”

He’s being surly, difficult. James would like to ask why he wanted to walk him home at all, if he doesn’t want conversation. Questions about indoor plumbing, winter provisions and the cost and availability of the village doctor which James had hoped to answer today fall by the wayside of Solomon’s mercurial mood. 

They pass through the rest of the village in near silence, reaching the ford by the stream which marks the outer boundary of Culswen, and the beginning of the woods which belong to James. He wonders if Solomon will leave him here; go back to the people he belongs with. 

James knows he ought to be honest; it is imperative if he is ever going to find out whether Guppy’s merciless philosophy is as wrong as he hopes it is. If he is to assure himself that honest affection and mutual respect can make equals out of anybody, regardless of class, regardless of anything at all. That two people can make each other happy without conceding ground.

Stopping just short of the bridge, James turns to Solomon, to look at him directly.

“I never imagined them all like that, your family,” he says, to start with.

“A lot of them.”

“Yes indeed,” James laughs, though Solomon doesn’t. “I suppose I always thought - you know how things were with my own parents and brothers, you know how little we… well. I am glad that yours are so different from mine, that’s all.”

“You can see how things are for me,” Solomon says, looking back towards the houses.

“Yes, I suppose I can,” James replies, confused. He realises he isn’t making himself clear, and makes another attempt, “what I wanted to say, was that I--”

“--here, what was all that about travelling?” Solomon says it so abruptly James stops mid sentence, feeling they’ve both made a wrong turn somewhere. 

Solomon is staring at him, his shoulders broad and his legs apart, like he’s spoiling for a fight. Clearly he has his own agenda, and James is caught very much on the back foot, a dreadful churning sensation in his stomach. 

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Egypt,” Solomon does not falter.

“Oh, that,” James swallows, “nothing much. Or I don't think so, anyway. Do you remember the gentleman I spoke to at your exhibition? Will Coningham, the editor? He mentioned there might be an opening for a spot of travel photography, that’s all. Pictures for his magazine. Knew my commercial work and saw I had a camera, I suppose he just thought he'd try his luck.”

“Offered you a job, did he?” the muscles in Solomon’s jaw move, “you didn’t say.”

“I didn’t think to. I haven’t decided whether or not I'll take it yet.”

“You’ll go, though,” Solomon says, “I know you.”

“Well. He did say Egypt - imagine! You know I’ve always wanted to see it. Remember that game we used to play, with the sphinx?”

“How long would you be gone?”

“Only a few months. Perhaps not even that. I don’t really know, as I said, we didn’t have time to discuss it in detail, he only saw the camera and -- I mean, I might not even be any  _ good _ at it.”

“You will be,” Solomon says gravely, “you’re good at everything.”

“Flatterer,” James laughs, trying to keep things light, only Solomon won’t join in.

“Then if he likes what you do in Egypt,” he says steadily, reasoning things out, “I expect he’d send you somewhere else after that?”

“It isn’t a given. He mentioned South America, and you know how much I’ve always wanted--”

“I oughtn’t to go any further,” Solomon says, looking at the bridge over the ford. “Better get back.”

James can’t bear to leave things like this, with everything still unsaid and a filthy row hanging over them. "Won't you come up with me? I’d like to explain a little more.”

"I'd be too missed."

"Well then, only come away for an hour or two, and go back down after. Come up with an excuse about… brickwork and what have you.”

Solomon scoffs. James shakes his head - clearly there is more than one point for discussion here, some kind of ugly spilling over is underway. “Here,” he says, trying to remedy the situation, “what about the summerhouse? That’s closer.” 

He’s rather pleased with this suggestion - after all it is one of the only places they are both at home, and better for this kind of talk, if they’re going to have it out.

Clearly this is a terrible mistake, Solomon takes great offence.

“That's how you'd like it, then?” he rants, "just have me up to service you then back down to the village?”

“I only meant to talk,” James stands back, aghast.

“It’s never just talk with you, though, is it?” he sneers. For a moment he looks like David Bryant; like every other coarse boorish man in Culswen.

“Don’t start accusing me of things which you know we both have a hand in,” James hisses, his temper heating up. “Honestly, why would you say it like that? I've never wanted that."

"It's how it feels. ' _ Make up an excuse _ '," Solomon mutters darkly.

"I can hardly help it if we live apart,”James returns, exasperated. “I thought it suited you. When we were young you would come up to see me.”

"I'd no responsibilities then, no standing. ‘Brickwork’ is no excuse to me, it's my living.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You just show up and expect nothing to have changed, when it has, when I am respected here. I can't be your rough boy from the village forever.”

"Well, then," James tightens his jaw, "what would you like to be?"

Solomon stares at him for a while, his eyes wide, clearly distressed. James can practically see the thoughts ticking behind his eyes, whirring in frantic circles like cogs. Eventually, Solomon seems to give up, throwing up his hands as he steps away.

"I don't bloody know, do I?"

There is something so vulnerable about his turmoil that James’ frustration momentarily subsides. It is difficult for them both, he does understand that; that is what today should have taught him.

"If I offended you,” he says, “it wasn’t my intention. You know I would never wish to… I do understand; I understand your work and your family are--"

"It isn’t that, it's… look, I just can't see this carrying on the way it is. It isn’t right, you know it."

James has never liked being told he is wrong. He clenches his fists, stepping forward, “when we were in London, you--”

“Yeah, London is London, isn’t it?” Solomon shakes his head. "But you don't know what it's like. When I'm with you, it's so…” He pauses, and doesn’t seem able to finish the thought. He frowns, shaking his head, the problem he is puzzling through clearly too dense to escape, “...and then the rest of the week I don't know who I am. My work and my home and my family - none of it feels the same. I can't make it all fit, since you've been back. And now you're telling me you’re off to Egypt, and where does it leave me?"

_ Damn it all _ \- what a perfectly hideous mess. They’ve never navigated anything like this before, there is simply no way through it that James can see. “I didn’t mean to...”

“What  _ do  _ you mean, James? I wish you’d say it for once.”

But James can’t say it now. He can’t say what he means or ask for the things he wants, not like this. What he wants, more than anything, is for things to be as simple as they were when they were young. He wants to go away, and come home to Solomon. He wants to live with him, and apart from him, and to show him things and explore together and for nobody else in the world to give them a second thought. 

He knows how foolish that sounds, how impossible and childish, so he presses his lips together and says nothing. 

Solomon keeps watching him, “you think I don't feel it, when you're off somewhere else. I do. I bloody feel it.” 

“And yet when I am here,” James says coldly, “you can hardly bear to be near me. To be seen with me.”

They stare at each other, deadlocked. Solomon sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Perhaps we’re too old for this now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say," Solomon wraps his arms around himself, stepping backwards, looking at the ground. "Perhaps it would be better if we kept ourselves to ourselves.”

“You don’t want to see me any more?” James lifts his chin, ready for the final blow. 

Solomon doesn’t look up, only rubs his arms and shrugs. “Sounds as though you'll be off soon, either way. And where will that leave me, eh? Nah," he shakes his head, sniffing, “I’ll finish the work I owe you, and I’ll always be your friend. But we can’t keep on like this, can we?”

James doesn’t know what to say, he can’t believe any of it. 

Solomon scratches the back of his head, taking another step back. “I’ll clear out of the summerhouse first thing tomorrow.”

“No, don’t do that,” James shakes his head, “we have an agreement; it’s yours to use as long as you like.”

“That’s kind. After all you've given me already.”

It isn’t  _ kindness, _ James would like to say, bitterly, it isn’t half of what Solomon has given him. How would it be to say something like that? But he doesn't; there’s no room for that kind of talk now.

They part ways without another word. Exhausted and rattled, James climbs uphill to the peace and quiet of Cadwallen Hoo, listening for the gradually receding tread of Solomon’s boots as he trudges home to his family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt - "The Hock-Cart or Harvest Home" by Robert Herrick
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you're still enjoying it :)


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